


The Death of Truth

by The_Librarian



Series: Life After Equivalence [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, After the quest, Brotherhood, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003), Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Dimension Travel, Friendship, Gate, Gatekeepers - Freeform, Gen, Life without alchemy, Mad Science, Other Earth, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Romance, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 91,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Found the bomb, saved the world - now on to a nice, normal life in a world without alchemy. Except when has life for the Elric brothers ever been that simple? Something is afoot in post-WW1 Europe, a great undertaking that promises to change two universes forever - something that will shake the very foundation of history. What is the Chambers Institute? How is it connected to the mysterious Patient? Who are the Gatekeepers? And why exactly are they so eager to speak to Roy Mustang?</p><p>A sequel of sorts to the The Conqueror of Shamballa. Spoilers for the series as a whole. Anime universe. Ed, thus language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude and Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, some 7 years ago (eeeeeep) I watched Fullmetal Alchemist for the first time. And I fell in love with it. This is the first Anime series I'm talking about and while I have subsequently read the Manga, I have an abiding preference for the 2003 Anime - including the open ending. There are lots of reasons for that which I won't bore you with here but being incapable of not coming up with story ideas regardless of my ability to write them out in full, I almost immediately started considering how I would continue the story from the end of 'The Conqueror of Shambala'. This truly enormous Fic was the result and it proudly stands as the only damn long fanfic I have ever actually managed to finish. I even wrote a sequel to it and have plans that may yet come to fruition for a couple more follow ups.
> 
> It has, since first writing, been stored on FF.net. In translating it across to AO3, I am performing a copyedit as well, correcting lots of mistakes that bug me and rewriting anything that I have subsequently decided was the product of a deranged mind trying too hard to get around the fundamentals of phenomenology. Think of this if you will (and I hope anyone who actually read the original will indeed do so) as the director's cut. And like all director's cuts, there may very well be a smattering of extended cotent – starting with the following prelude . . .
> 
> All credit for the original goes, of course, to the esteemed Hiromu Arakawa and endless props also to the writers and artists who worked on the 2003 Anime. All blame for my subsequent mucking around with the worlds they created is entirely at my own feet. All updates will be chapter by chapter and on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. All biscuits are welcome.

**Prelude: Uncertainty**

The Truth stands, unchanging in the void.

The Truth is the void. It is the Gate and it is what the Gate keeps in and what the Gate keeps out. The Gate is the Truth and the Truth is all.

It is the meaningless of time and the emptiness of space and the lunacy of thought. It is the point of stillness around which all turns and the point of collapse into which all eventually falls.

The Truth stands.

The Truth . . . bleeds.

There was a moment (an eternity) in which the Gate was breached. An instant (a forever) of utter wrongness. Of unfathomable discord.

Things stir. The never-wases and the shouldn't-bes worm about, just out of reach. They can feel the breach. They know the hurt that has been done. It pleases them.

The Truth is dying.

By seven by seven by seven. Soon it will break.

And then?

Oh, then . . .

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Prologue: Quest’s End**

 

The warehouses and loading yards were used to noise. The shouts of workers and foremen, the rumble of trucks and cranes, the thump of crates and boxes in motion – these were virtually engrained in the brickwork. Uproar was normal. Just not at three fifteen in the morning.

Cries of bloody murder following hard on his heels, the cause of the unexpected racket legged it along the narrow gap between two of the longer buildings, swearing as he tried to keep his rucksack from bouncing too much. For half a second, he wondered how the night watchmen passed their time when they weren’t chasing innocent burglars and whether they would thank him for bringing a little excitement and exercise into an otherwise dreadfully dull job. Then the far more sensible part of his brain reminded him that how they were likely to express their appreciation for said excitement when they caught up with him.

He chanced a backwards glance. Three bright, wildly swaying lanterns and a mass of bulky, angry looking shapes. Not a time to slow down then. Now where the hell was that…

“Oof! Ow!” The fence stamped a red grid across his face. He slammed painfully against it, much to the satisfaction of the guards, who wheezed to a stop a dozen feet away and aimed their lanterns straight at him.

“Well, well, well,” growled the largest, swaggering neatly into cliché territory, “What do we have here? One little trapped rat.”

Said rat squared his shoulders and levelled a fierce glare. “Who are you calling so small a kitten could eat him?!”

They laughed nastily and the big cliché took a step forward. The thief’s indignation vanished and he grinned, just as nastily. With an exaggerated flourish, he stretched out his arms and clapped once, loudly.

A small quantity of air was displaced. Other than that, nothing happened. The cliché looked around. “What was that? A round of applause for catching you?”

Not precisely on cue, a gangling figure dropped lightly from the warehouse eves behind the watchmen and laid into them with a quarterstaff. The lanterns crashed and smashed to the ground as their owners quickly learnt the hard way what six foot of oak could do when applied properly.

“You were supposed to jump them when I clapped,” the thief hissed when the last of the men landed on his ample behind, “Not leave me looking like a complete moron!”

“Sorry about that, brother,” his rescuer apologised meekly, “I slipped halfway up the drainpipe…”

“Ah, forget it. Guess it was a stupid thing to do anyway. Come on.” He dodged around a feeble grab from one of the less stunned guards. “Our ride’s waiting.” Side by side, they raced back up the alley.

Half a minute later, they were darting between ranks of brooding, silent lorries. The boy with the quarterstaff signalled silently and swarmed up into the cab of a large flatbed. His brother carefully passed him the precious sack and started to climb himself.

“Hoy! Halt!”

The shout ripped across the yard at parade-ground volume. He turned and saw more torches and more bulky shapes pounding towards them. “Oh, f –”

With a harsh cough, the truck came to life. Another yell, indignant enough to be audible above the bone-rattling machinery, demanding they stop or be shot. He reacted with the instincts of someone who has spent a large part of their life ignoring requests made by people with guns, swinging past the cab and onto the truck’s cargo deck. The almost feral grin returned when he saw what was stacked there.

Flinching as a warning shot ricocheted off something close to his head, he hunched down and fumbled at his right wrist. Finding the catch, he twisted. There was a sharp _sprang_ sound and a slender blade burst through the glove. It made short work of the ropes he could reach and then it was simply a case of throwing all his strength against the cargo . . .

In a cascade of copper pipes, a trail of semi-concussed guards and a cloud of gate fragments, the lorry exploded into the night.


	2. Day Jobs

“I could be wrong, but isn’t there something in the Regs about standing to attention and saluting a superior officer when he comes into a room?”

After a leaden pause, Lieutenant Breda deigned to grant the visitor a response. “That’d be next to the bit about Captains not wandering around headquarters with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.”

Havoc harrumphed and looked around the office, regarding its occupants with a puzzled frown. Not one of them had turned away from their desks when he had come in. He would have expected that in the old days, when his presence was hardly a novelty, but now when he rarely got back to Central more than once a month . . .

“Hey what’s . . .” And then he realised two things. First, you could have cut the atmosphere with a bayonet. Second, everyone was diligently focusing on work despite a certain blonde sharpshooter being nowhere in sight.

“Geez. Who’s funeral have I missed?”

Breda shot him an unusually sour glare but it was Fuery who answered. “If you’re here to see the Brigadier General, you might want to come back tomorrow.”

“’Fraid it can’t wait that long.” The tangle-haired officer strode for the door at the far end, hand raised to knock. Three strangled gasps and the scrape of Fuery’s chair stopped him in his tracks.

The master sergeant’s eyes bulged behind his glasses. “N-no, you c-can’t!”

“Why not? The Brig’s an old comrade and I’m not gonna be here long.”

“Because,” Falman answered in loud whisper, “Brigadier General Mustang has received a sudden influx of important work and is not to be disturbed for anything less than the end of the world.”

Havoc nearly bit through his cigarette. “What the hell did he _do_?” he asked eventually, half-afraid of the answer.

“He asked Hawkeye on a date when they’d clocked off last night,” said Breda in tones reserved for descriptions of horrific crimes.

“Um…” Confused, Havoc frowned again. “Is that all?”

“No. Then _she_ clocked him one.”

“Huh?! Actually _hit_ him? _Hit_ him?”

“Yep. Gave him a nosebleed. And we only know that because Sheska saw them and me and the medical officer met in a bar last night. I got in early today –”

“For once, muttered Falman.

“ _And_ there she was, grabbing any bit of paper with his name on it and piling them in his tray. Gave me a look that could have burnt through steel when I asked what was going on. Mustang dragged himself in – on time if you can believe that – and she caught him before he knew what was happening. Hasn’t let him out since.”

“But . . . _why_?” was all the captain could say.

The other three men looked at each other before speaking simultaneously.

“Balloons.”

“Eh?”

“The idiot asked her to come to that balloon festival the Independent Alchemists are holding at the weekend.”

“And she . . . Are you telling me she _still_ hasn’t forgiven him for that? It’s been nearly two years!”

There was another round of looks.

“I . . . err . . .” Fuery coughed. “I don’t think it’s that she hasn’t forgiven him . . .”

Fresh realisation dawned and Havoc buried his face in his hands. “Don’t tell me. He still hasn’t said sorry, has he?”

 

* * *

Head propped up with one hand, pen gripped in the other, the Flame Alchemist signed the zillionth official document of the day and cast a hopeful eye in the direction of the other desk. Smooth black eyes met piercing cinnabar. His loyal subordinate stood, covering the distance between them with precise steps. He opened his mouth to speak, to break the dreadful silence that had hung between them for the past six hours with something witty and charming. . .

She deposited another unfeasibly large heap of papers in his in-tray and swept herself and the contents of the out-tray back to her seat. He bit down a gurgle of disappointment and resigned himself to being snowed under for the foreseeable eternity.

The main problem was that he did not want to upset her any more. It would have been easy to lapse back into the normal routine of slacking off, reading the paper, doodling and basically living up to his reputation of being the Military’s worst procrastinator. It would have been very easy indeed to put off real work until the last minute and rush through it in a mad frenzy of flying parchment and splattered ink. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to ignore the fact that he had made a complete fool of himself and been whacked for his troubles, just as he had done every other time he had half-jokingly tried to act on his feelings towards Riza Hawkeye.

But this was not like those other times. This time it had been a real whack. He had dug that little bit too deep and the water main of fate had hit him on the nose.

They had never discussed that bizarre day – it seemed a century, a millennia ago now – when the earth had broken open and the living dead has filled the streets and skies of Central, when a one-eyed private had marched back from the north and taken command of an army, when a blonde teenager with a metal arm had proved his indestructibility once more, when . . .

When Roy Mustang, famed hero, alchemic genius and arrogant jerk, had stopped the woman who would have followed him beyond the gates of hell from doing just that.

He had done it for the best of reasons. He had already doomed his military carrier and as he was probably about to die horribly, he thought he might as well go out protecting the people he cared about, to wit a city full of innocent people, a certain vertically challenged bad penny and the best shot in the country. The first two, they needed him in the ramshackle aircraft, floating up into the blue yonder to combat the winged monstrosities bombarding everything below. The third . . . _he_ needed _her_ back on the ground, safe, surrounded by the best soldiers in Amestris. In that moment, secure in his suicidal arrogance, he had thought he was being noble.

It was only later, when the world stopped spinning and he was left clutching a medal, the papers of a re-commissioned Brigadier General, the keys to a new set of offices and orders to lead the reconstruction effort, that he had realised what he had done. And how much she must hate him for it.

Still, when he had her and the rest of his old command assigned under him, nothing seemed to have changed. She still enforced ruthless efficiency with a sniper’s skills (including the unnerving ability to walk without making any sound whatsoever), still covered his blunders, still prodded him awake when his nap overran, still chastised him for abusing the telephone . . . they could have been back at East Command, before Homunculi, Lab 5, Liore and high treason had changed everything. He was insanely grateful that the higher ups had cottoned onto the need to keep Mustang and the only cattle prod that had an effect on him in the same room and hadn’t questioned why a newly promoted Captain was still acting as his aide. To try and show how grateful he was, he laid off the girls – not that his libido had ever quite recovered from the sheer terror of his fight with Bradley – and did his best to play nice with the paperwork. No more spontaneous cranes or ‘accidental’ bonfires.

He’d been good and had thought that that was good enough. She had even smiled at him, smiled often. And then he’d joked about asking her out. And something raw and angry had burst through the mask of normality and applied a righteous set of knuckles to his face.

Auto-mail couldn’t have hurt more.

So here they were, him wanting desperately to say something that would make up for every slight he had ever inflicted on her and her walling him up behind pulped trees.

Damn.

Anger at himself gave him courage and he flung the pen down, springing to his feet, striding to stare out of the window. The pointed cough nearly had him shuddering. But something reckless kept him there. “I’ve been sitting down too long, Hawkeye. If I don’t stretch my legs, I’ll get cramp.” Somehow, keeping his eye fixed on the manicured lawns outside made the rebellion easier.

Now, maybe if he was really quiet and concentrated on tracing the straight lines that were the pride and joy of the military gardeners, he could make himself invisible enough that he might not have to scrawl his signature on anything for –

“Hawkeye, come here.” He knew without turning that her worst glare was burning into the spot between his shoulder blades. “Really, come here. I need to check I’m not hallucinating.”

Her chair slid back and she was suddenly at his side. “Sir?”

“Tell me: is there or is there not someone standing in the middle of that lawn wearing a white cloak?”

Hawkeye’s eyebrows rose. “There is, sir.”

“Oh, that’s good. I thought for a moment my other eye was giving up. Now what the _hell_ are they doing there?”

The apparition was tall and thin, features entirely hidden within the folds of a long, hooded cloak. Nevertheless, it gave the impression of looking up and, more precisely, of looking straight at the man and the woman in the third floor window. “A civilian?” Hawkeye suggested, “Perhaps a representative of the Independent Alchemists? They do tend to have . . . elaborate dress senses.”

“Hm.” Mustang’s eyes narrowed and he reached for the latch. “I’m going to find out.”

Flinging the window wide open, he leant out and shouted surprisingly loudly. “Hey! You!” Several non-coms and a second lieutenant jumped, clearly thinking, as anyone does when someone shouts ‘hey, you’, that they were the ones being addressed. The cloaked figure did not move. “You in the hood! What are you doing here?”

If there was any lingering fear in Mustang’s mind that he might be being rude to a perfectly innocent visitor, it was dispelled when whomever-it-was turned slowly around and started walking away. “Oy!” He was fairly certain he hadn’t had to bellow ‘oy’ at someone for years but the situation seemed to call for it. “Oy! Stop!” The words had no effect.

Scowling, he extended one gloved hand, ready to snap a spark into existence and send a blast of flame into the stranger’s path.

“Sir.” The note of warning in Hawkeye’s voice dragged his attention sideways.

“The gardeners, sir.”

He winced, remembering what had happened the last time one of his fires had left a smoking hole in the perfect turf. “Yes, but –”

“I’ll ring the guardhouse, sir.” She spun on her heel. Grudgingly, he withdrew his hand and watched sullenly as the cloak was lost in the crowds. His scowl deepened. No one had bothered trying to stop the man – if it was a man – despite the fact that they must all have heard his shouts.

“Sir?” Hawkeye held the phone away from her ear. “They say no one of that description has been reported entering or leaving the base.”

“Have them check again. No, have them actively search.”

“Sir.”

Paranoia, possibly, but in his experience, the unusual was always something to be worried about.

He remained at the window for another minute, until Hawkeye started tapping her pen against a blotter, the signal that his reprieve was up. The ice remained unbroken. A mysterious intruder had done nothing to get him off the hook. Terrific. Resignation overcame him once more and he sat down, reaching for the next form. Things returned to tense, pen-scratching filled silence.

It was broken twice before the end of the day, once when the guardhouse rang up to say that they had found no sign of any white cloaked interloper and once when Mustang opened a docket and found a disclosure request concerning a research paper authored by the Fullmetal Alchemist.

The sigh he gave as he stamped it denied was unusually heartfelt.

 

* * *

* * *

In another world, under another sky, on a dusty road, Edward Elric released his hair from its woollen prison with more than a little relief. The dark cap had become unbearably uncomfortable. He stretched luxuriously; glad to be free of both that and the cramped confines of the appropriated lorry, which had been left in a ditch a couple of miles back. With luck, they’d be able to find fresh transport soon but he wouldn’t mind too much if they had to walk.

After all, the sun was coming up on a cloudless day, his brother, his flesh-and-blood, complete-with-memories brother, was at his side and they had just cleaned up the unfinished business that had been gnawing away at them for the past year and a half. Life was good.

He put the rucksack down and hauled himself onto a fence, digging in a pocket for something to fasten his hair back so the wind wouldn’t blow it into his eyes all the time. Al leant against his staff, grinning. _Grinning_. Even after so long together like this, Ed still found himself offering silent thanks every time he saw his brother smiling. No more impassive metal mask, no more having to rely on a distant, tinny voice for emotion . . .

“What?” the taller boy asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring at me, brother.”

Ed chuckled. “Just thinking about something Noah said before we left. About there being a few of her friends who’d be very angry if I didn’t bring you back in one piece.”

It took a moment but the crimson flush that crept up towards his ears made Ed go from chuckling to laughing so hard he nearly fell over backwards.

When he regained his composure, Al’s expression had become serious. “What are we going to do with it?”

There was no need to ask what ‘it’ was. “What we were always going to do. Dismantle it. Destroy it. Though I guess they saved us a bit of trouble there, huh?”

It had taken a great deal of time and effort to track down the remnants of the Thule Society after its leadership fell apart following the ‘Shambala’ disaster. They had started during the days spent painstakingly removing every trace of the ‘sorcery’ that had propelled Eckhart’s forces into Amestris, thereby banishing the ghostly portal once and for all. From there, they had criss-crossed the continent, chasing rumours, living with the _Roma_ and doing anything they could to earn their keep. At some point, though neither could remember when, Al had learnt how to use a quarter staff with considerable skill. It was, Ed supposed, a good thing to have found something to replace alchemy in a fight but he still hadn’t quite lost his nervousness around a spinning length of wood taller than he was.

Eventually, they caught up with a consumption-ridden professor in a decaying Parisian mansion and he told them everything. Huskisson’s bomb, along with most of the Society’s other projects, had been placed in storage and abandoned. The most powerful weapon on the planet had been half-dismantled and locked away because no one who knew what it was had the money or resources to do anything with it.

The anticlimax was painfully ironic. And now the football-sized metal sphere lay in bits in the sack at their feet. They had done it.

“Maybe we could bury it. Or drop it in a lake. Yeah . . . put it in some lead box and just let it sink. No one would ever find it again.”

“That’s a good idea.” Al rubbed the staff between his hands, drilling a dent in the dust. “But we’ll still have to get it _to_ a lake. Are you sure you’re OK carrying it . . .?”

“Course I am!” Ed flexed his auto-mail. “This hasn’t broken down yet, you know.” Hair secure, he rolled up his sleeve and examined the metal arm.

The addition of the spring-blade had marred the sleek lines considerably. True, he had had the sense to get a copy of the forearm plate made before he tried his hand at welding things onto it but still . . . Winry would kill him if she saw what he’d –

“Don’t.” Al’s voice was soft but it stopped him from thinking too far in that direction. As always. He threw him a grateful look and hopped down.

“Come on. We’d better get moving if we’re gonna make the border anytime this month.”

Hefting the sack, he stepped back onto the road.

“I wonder if anyone will come after us . . .”

“Eh.” He shook his head. “Doubt it. We didn’t leave a trail and who else really knows how important this thing is?”

“Hmm . . . guess so . . .”

They set off northwards, the rhythmic thump of feet and staff the only sounds outside of birdsong.

“Hey Al? Know what the best thing about all this is?”

“What?”

“We don’t have to go report to Mustang now we’re done!”

 

* * *

* * *

He found the hubbub of the city comforting. The country-dwellers of his acquaintance often complained that it drowned out the pleasanter noises. To him, though, it was the sound of life, of peaceful, prosperous, _good_ life. True, it was sometimes loud and tinged with harshness but it was never the hateful, vile dissonance of the battlefield or the cold, icy hush of the graveyard. When he heard it, he remembered that there was still vigour and happiness somewhere in the world. And while he had never been a poetic man, that made him feel better about his existence.

And after a day’s worth of near silence, Mustang needed that more than ever.

Would he be able to handle another day, another week, another month of determinedly distant Hawkeye? He wasn’t sure. He doubted it. He doubted even more that his wrist would be able to take the strain. Which meant he had to fix things between them and fast. But what could he possibly say or do after so comprehensively shooting himself in the foot . . .

Darkly, he considered the fact that technically she had struck a superior officer and immediately argued himself out of anything in _that_ direction. As if either of them had been thinking like soldiers in that moment. As if he deserved any recourse to –

He stopped. He turned. He stared.

The stranger in the white cloak was standing in the mouth of an alleyway not ten yards away, looking straight at him. Passers-by did not spare a glance, apparently ignorant of the spectre in their midst. Just like at Headquarters. As if only Mustang could see it clearly. Except, Hawkeye had as well. She certainly hadn’t been in the mood to be humouring a delusional superior.

People often accused him of being reckless. Presumably, they hoped that he would listen and change his ways as a result. They’d clearly missed the part of the definition of recklessness that dealt with willingness to listen to advice.

He sprinted across the street, barely avoiding being run over, and plunged into the alley. The stranger was already racing away, cloak billowing. “Oh no you don’t!” Like a champion bowler, his arm described a perfect throwing arc, fingers clicking at the apex. Fire forked over the fugitive’s head, igniting a towering wall of burning air. Over the buzz of alchemic exertion, Mustang smirked triumphantly. His stalker was trapped, cringing back from the cage of flames, throwing up arms for protection in the face of unbelievable heat.

Advancing, Mustang rubbed his gloves menacingly. “Now . . .”

The other whirled. Mustang had half a second to see a jet-black hand and vivid golden light blazing from the shadows inside the hood. Then the ground ripped open, metal serpents writhing and hissing up from below. Metal serpents made from water mains.

The world exploded into cold, soaking pain.


	3. Parallels

Having a major city’s water supply blasted into your guts is not a pleasant experience.

It is even less pleasant when accompanied by the sickening thought that you have just lost any possibility of fighting back even if you wanted to do anything but curl up in a corner and whimper.

Roy Mustang decided, as he lay on the drenched flagstones, that it was high time he started carrying around some sort of waterproof backup plan. At the very least, that might put an end to the ‘useless in the rain’ jibes that a lot of people still found unnecessarily hilarious.

Not that he was likely to survive that long but it was nice to fantasise.

The hooded man – for the sake of the more chauvinistic parts of his pride, he hoped it was a man – glided closer, flanked by the animated plumbing. With the crystal clarity of the imminently condemned, Mustang noted the complete absence of any obvious transmutation circles. The guy hadn’t clapped his hands either. For that matter, the skill required to manipulate so many pipes at once without direct contact bordered on the impossible.

Right. As impossible as a twelve year old becoming a State Alchemist or the Führer turning out to be an inhuman monster. He really should start broadening his horizons a little. Groaning, he squinted up at white blur. Fullmetal’d be in stitches over this. The almighty Flame going out with a drowned squeak . . .

“Stay down, sir!” Gunpowder thunderclaps boomed along the alley. Superheated lumps of lead bounced off municipal engineering. The blur vanished. There was a fresh _wumph-wooosh_ of ballistic water. Someone gave a sharp yell. Then things went quiet.

Maybe if I just lie here, he thought, it’ll all go away – water, bruises, wrecked street, the distant ragged wings of approaching paperwork – and I’ll wake up in a nice warm bed.

“Sir?” A very familiar face appeared over him, hair dripping and disordered.

“Hawkeye…?” he mumbled, “You’re all wet.”

“Yes sir. So are you sir. How many fingers?”

“Bwah?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Don’t you know?” Her eyes narrowed. “Sorry. Two. And one thumb.”

“Good.”

She helped him stand, one of her guns still at the ready. The alley was even more mangled than he’d expected. “Ooh . . . wouldn’t like to have to clear this up…”

“If I wasn’t worried about you being concussed, I’d make you do it right now.”

“Hey! You think I did this to _myself_? Where’d he go?”

“I didn’t see.”

Steadying himself against a wall, he took in her appearance. She was drenched head to foot but still looked capable of fending off an invasion single-handedly. He looked down at himself and stamped a foot. It squelched. “Hawkeye, we appear to be soaked.”

“You said, sir.”

“Does anyone know what’s happening?”

“I told Falman I’d be keeping an eye on you but other than that, no.”

“Then we need to get somewhere to dry off that has a phone. My flat’s closest. Damn.” His gloves were sopping. “Useless. I don’t suppose you…?”

She held up the spare pair she always carried for him and squeezed. Muddy liquid splatter on the ground. He winced. “Well, captain. My life is in your hands. Again.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Alphonse gulped down the last of his milk, much to his brother’s obvious disgust. Doing his best to ignore the expressive grimacing, the younger Elric addressed the farmer at whose table they were sitting. “Thank you very much for all this.”

“Yeah,” Ed added, “It’s real kind of you to take us in for the night.”

“Not at all,” the man replied, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, “The least I could do after you helped me with the cart.”

His wife smiled at Al as she set a dish of stewed apples in front of him. “He’s lucky you came along. Last time he ran it off the road, it took him half a day to drag it back.”

“We’re glad we could help. Mmm! This is delicious!”

Apparently, there was a lot to be said for the kindness of strangers. Once the farmer – Jacque – had satisfied himself that they weren’t bandits or murderers, he had been overwhelmingly grateful for two extra pairs of hands to help him get his horse and what was left of his cart back home. He’d even offered to take them to the nearest town with a station, though they’d beaten him down into letting them assist with putting up his market stall – and repairing the cart for him.

 

“Did they teach you how to fix farm equipment at university?” Jacque had greeted the revelation that Ed had studied in Munich with the assertion that they spoke pretty good French for a pair of German boys. They had silently agreed not to correct him.

“Nah,” Ed answered genially, “Just something we picked up. You could say we’ve been learning how to fix things all our lives.”

“A good use for any life! Now, since you don’t approve of my herd’s produce, how about something with a little more taste?” The man sprang from the table and reached for a decanter on the mantelpiece. “A measure for you as well, Master Alphonse?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I, err . . .”

Jacque’s wife caught his eye. “Not a drinker?”

“Not really . . .” Memories of spending four o’clock in the morning doubled over and heaving his guts out sprang to mind with unpleasant clarity.

Settling back to play the part of spectator, he remembered what Ed had said about Noah’s friends. That train of thought rolled onto Scar – no, _Ivan_! He never made the mistake when he was face to face with the brown eyed, whole-faced duplicate of the Ishbalan warrior but it was sometimes difficult to keep things straight when he wasn’t.

Ivan had seen him after a particularly rough night and given one of his rare barks of laughter. “I really don’t understand why so many of the girls make doe eyes at you.”

Al’s head had still felt unglued at that point and he’d responded with mute incomprehension.

“Your brother’s got the muscles and the looks to have a hoard of them after him if he wanted. He doesn’t, true enough, but that’s not the point. But you? You’re _pretty_ , Alphonse Elric, a pretty, thin, clueless kid who can’t stomach his drink and doesn’t notice woman even when they’re hanging on his coat tails.”

Hearing having finally connected with brain, the ‘clueless kid’ had gaped in shock.

The Roma had laughed again. “See? Not a clue. Take my advice: start seeing what’s around you. Love for your brother is all well and good but it’s not the be all and end all. The sooner you realise that, the sooner you might be able to broaden your experience of the finer things in life. Especially when they offer themselves up on a platter. Heh. I suppose that height advantage of yours really must give you the edge . . .”

Of course, a second later Ed’s boot hit him on the ear and Al hadn’t considered the incident since. Now though, he mulled it over curiously. As well as returning his memories, crossing the Gate had given him back four years’ worth of growth in a series of frighteningly abrupt spurts, leaving him towering over Ed once more. He supposed he was as in shape as anyone his age could be. But that the combination could be attractive to anyone . . . that had honestly never occurred to him. Why should it have? He had been ten twice over. His experience of ‘the finer things in life’ was limited to say the least. There had only ever been Winry and she was a big sister, not a . . . well, just that really.

Someone lightly touched his shoulder. “You have the look of a man thinking deep thoughts,” Jacque’s wife told him, “I wouldn’t disturb you but I need that spoon back.”

Blushing profusely, he stood up. “Oh, yes, sorry! I’ll help!”

She thanked him and led the way to the kitchen. “Do you mind scrubbing those pans?”

“Not at all! You’ve been very kind to us, Mrs –”

“Madeline.”

“Huh?”

“My name. I think I’m still young enough not to be offended by you using it.”

“Oh, right. Well, you’ve been very kind to us, Madeline.”

“Jacque has never seen why those who can should not help others in need. It’s one of the many reasons I married him.”

“Brother’s the same. Always trying to ‘be thou of the people’.”

“Family motto?”

“No, not exactly. It’s more . . . like a guide for people in authority. To use their powers for the good of everyone. I suppose you can apply it to anyone, really.”

Madeline pulled her auburn hair back into a ponytail and started drying plates. “Sounds like a good philosophy. With Jacque, it was the War that made him the way he is. He fought and when he came back . . . he never talks about what he saw but it haunts him dreadfully. Now he can’t bear to hurt or hate anyone.”

Al stared out at the darkness beyond the window. “I understand. There was a time when . . . Brother almost did something truly terrible once. To save my life he would have . . . he nearly . . . something terrible. He still has nightmares about it, he just can’t forget. There are other things as well, things no one should have had to go through. I’m lucky in a way. He was always there to protect me, to shield me from some of the worst things imaginable. But he . . . he’s scared of himself, I think. Terrified of what he’s capable of. Somewhere inside him . . . he thinks he’s a monster. And he’s always trying to prove that he isn’t, even though it’s only him who needs that proof . . .”

He trailed off, embarrassment at pouring his heart out to an almost perfect strange leaving him tongue-tied. “I . . . err . . . I’ve never told anyone about that . . . sorry, I’m . . .”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I understand too. You just want to make everything better, don’t you? You want to reach inside them and fix whatever’s broken. But you can’t. They won’t let you because they insist on protecting you from it.”

He turned and properly looked at the petite woman. She couldn’t be more than thirty; an energetic, self-reliant person who’d lived in the open air all her life. She reminded him of Winry and Lieutenant Ross, people who cared deeply but couldn’t always show how much. “Yes,” he said at last, “That’s it exactly.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, he had to half carry Ed to their temporary bedroom. His genius brother always ended up drinking far more than he should, even if he could handle it far better than the Al ever would. His head lolled against the other’s shoulder and he mumbled incoherently about elements and calculations. The taller boy’s apologies to their hosts were waved aside and the goodnights were warm.

As the pair staggered out of sight, Jacque clasped his wife’s hand. “A strange one, that.”

“His brother as well. They’re both far older than they should be.”

The farmer rubbed his chin. “It’s more than that. I’m not talking about that mechanical arm, either. It’s their eyes. Gold and bronze and always looking into the distance…”

Madeline stroked his hair. “They are a long way from home and they are resigned to never going back.”

“Edward said something about completing a mission while we were talking. I don't think he knows what to do with himself now its over.”

“Then I hope they find something. Because I don’t think they’ll ever be happy with quiet lives.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Grimacing, Mustang peeled off the sodden eye-patch and applied a towel to the mass of scar tissue that covered the left side of his face. It never hurt to touch nowadays but the sensation was still unpleasant.

They were standing around his stove, gently steaming and waiting for someone to turn up to keep watch while they changed. Hawkeye was not going to let him out of her sight until then and, to be perfectly honest, he didn’t want her to. He hung the patch on the heater and adjusted a drying glove, flexing his fingers inside the replacement he had scrounged from his bedside cabinet.

“Thank you for coming for me,” he said suddenly.

Hawkeye blinked. “You’ve never had to thank me.”

“No. I’ve never been able to thank you enough. In fact,” he continued, before his nerve could fail him, “I’ve been –”

“Now is not the time to have this conversation, sir.”

“Hawkeye . . . Riza –”

Whether he would have managed to finish the sentence was difficult to say but the point became moot when someone knocked on the front door. “I’ll get it.”

They said it together. Mustang cleared his throat. “Probably the clean up squad. But . . . cover me.”

Ever so slightly self-conscious at going to his own door with an armed escort, he crossed the room with his fingers ready to snap. Pulling back the latch, he gripped the handle, nodded to Hawkeye and pulled.

There was a flash of light bright enough to hurt. When it had cleared, Mustang’s gloves had vanished, both Hawkeye’s pistols were gone and the man in the white cloak was standing next to the heater. “Please. Don’t be alarmed.” A soft voice, polite. Two slender obsidians hands emerged from the folds of snowy cloth, holding out the missing weapons. “My apologies for removing these. It would have been inconvenient if you had inflicted damage upon this body.”

Neither of them answered him. He bowed. “Brigadier General Roy Mustang, Captain Riza Hawkeye. My actions towards you have been unforgivably abrupt but I assure you that my motives are not antagonistic. Please call me Diligence. I must speak with you on a matter of the utmost urgency. It concerns Edward and Alphonse Elric.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is just possible Mustang's dignity doesn't really survive this story.
> 
> Reflecting as I edit, I have to wonder if Parallels was the right title for this chapter. It's not really about parallels . . .
> 
> I'm also not sure if they have stewed apple in the south of France. My geography and cusine considerations were quite low at the time.


	4. Story Time

The sun persisted in shining unnecessarily brightly for a spring afternoon. That, among other things, was making the mountain trail less than idyllic.

“This is ludicrous.”

“You have mentioned it, sir.”

“Who arranges a secret meeting at the top of a mountain? That's just inconvenient!”

“Yes sir.”

“Two days on a train was bad enough but this is ridiculous!”

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up and keep climbing.”

 

* * *

 

_The first thing Diligence did was return the guns and the gloves, the second to apologise yet again for having taken them. The third was to fold his cloak aside and pull back his hood._

_Beneath, his skin was completely smooth and utterly black. Not brown or tan or chocolate but black, like tar or jet. He was thin, malnourished even, though he did not appear to be in any discomfort. There was not a single hair on his head and the eyes that looked out from his thin face were pure gold. When he spoke, his teeth flashed silver and needle-sharp. He wore no clothing other than the cloak and seemed to have nothing to cover._

_Sitting bolt upright in a chair, he waited for permission to speak. Mustang gave it with a curt,“Well?”_

“ _I am sorry for the altercation earlier. I intended to lead you to a more secluded area where we could talk uninterrupted. My form, however, is fragile and I had to act quickly to prevent you from inflicting severe harm. I hope that I did not cause injury.”_

“ _Why do you want to talk to me?”_

“ _Because you have had reasonably direct experience of the forces that I must discuss. It was felt that you would be more understanding than someone who lacked that experience. And because you share an emotional connection with the Elric brothers.”_

 

* * *

 

“This rucksack is killing me.”

“Mine’s fine.”

“You’re tougher than I am, Hawkeye.”

“Yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

_“Other worlds? Gates of Truth? Impending apocalypses? You expect us to believe this?” Mustang’s tone was laden with sarcasm._

_“I can only speak the Truth. Nothing more, nothing less.”_

_“That,” Hawkeye pointed out, “is hardly an unbiased opinion.”_

_“But it is accurate.” Diligence pressed his fingertips together. “You must understand. These are not concepts that can easily be put in human terms. The Gate itself is as much a matter of perception as it is the lodestone for this reality. But the threat is real and the danger that threat poses to all that exists, immense.”_

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I’m halfway up a mountain on the say so of someone who seems to think he’s an angel or something.”

“No sir.”

 

* * *

 

_“Like any organism, when wounded, the Gate created a means of healing itself. I and my colleagues are part of that means, tasked with collecting up the misplaced souls and removing them from worlds where they could do further harm.”_

“ _You mean kill them?” Hawkeye's tone was blunt._

“ _Not unless absolutely necessary. It is considered safer to transfer them bodily back to their correct sides.”_

“ _Hm.” Mustang snapped and toyed idly with the flame he had created. “So why isn’t Fullmetal back underfoot and putting a wrecking ball through my career?”_

“ _Something occurred that was . . . unexpected.”_

 

* * *

 

“Do you have to keep calling me ‘sir’? They’ll throw us out of the Military for this so you might as well get used to civilian names.”

“As far as anyone is concerned, we are on an official mission. There is no reason for them to suspect otherwise. We will not be thrown out. Sir.”

 

* * *

 

_“Kindness was dispatched to collect the Elric brothers and another. However, she was waylaid and now we cannot reach her. It appears some force is attempting to prevent us repairing the damage created by the forcible bridging of worlds.”_

“ _Waylaid? The fate of the universe at stake and one of you gets distracted by roadside flowers?”_

_Hawkeye elbowed Mustang in the ribs. “What will happen if you cannot send Edward and Alphonse home?”_

_“The damage can still be repaired. But without the assurance that alchemy will never again be performed in a world where it should not exist, the effort could well be for naught. Another such event might even open the Gate irreversibly, unleashing forces that nothing else could contain.”_

 

* * *

 

“But you could call me Roy all the same, couldn’t you?”

“I could.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Mind that rock, sir. I think it’s loose.”

“Wha – _oomph_!”

 

* * *

 

“ _You want us to do_ what _?!”_

_Diligence inclined his head.“The six of us who remain at liberty cannot risk becoming ensnared by the same force that has Kindness. We believe that sending human agents in our stead would be the most effective alternative.”_

_Mustang started pacing. “So you want me to just up and leave my duties to go questing in another world? Travel through the Gate and bring back pipsqueak and company?”_

“ _Yes.”_

“ _Are you mad?”_

“ _Nothing I have said contradicts the facts as you know them.”_

“ _Well, no . . .”_

“ _You wish to help your friends.”_

“ _Friends? I wouldn’t say –”_

“ _Can you prove anything you’ve said?” Hawkeye asked as calmly as if she were asking to see someone’s ID._

_Diligence considered. “I can show you the other world. Transfer your souls there for a moment.”_

“ _How will we know what you show us is real?”_

“ _Proof of that I cannot offer. You will have to trust me.”_

 

* * *

 

“Are you all right, sir?”

“ _Fine_.”

“I don’t think anything you were carrying broke.”

“Oh, _good_. I was really worried I might have dented a canteen as well as my elbow.”

 

* * *

 

_There was a flash of white light._

_Mustang blinked. “Where are we?”_

“ _This city is called Munich,” said the dark blur at his side, “We are in a country called Germany.”_

“ _It feels . . . real . . .” Hawkeye ran her fingers over the bricks of the wall next to them. “The air and the stone . . . it even smells real.”_

“ _And they look real as well.” Mustang pointed to a gaggle of young women. “I wonder . . .” He trailed off, staring._

_A bespectacled police officer strolled by, tilting his helmet politely to the ladies._

“ _Maes . . .” Mouthing in utter disbelief, Mustang made to follow him down the street._

“ _No.” Diligence’s emotionless voice held him back. “A version of Maes Hughes, perhaps, but not him.”_

“ _But . . . but it was . . .”_

“ _What might have been.”_

_Shock gave way to anger. “Did you know he’d be here?Are you trying to manipulate my emotions? Is that it?!”_

“ _No. Your subconscious chose this location, not mine.”_

“ _How could I have –”_

_Hawkeye cut him off again. “Can you show us the brothers?”_

“ _If that is what you wish.”_

 

* * *

 

“I hope Fullmetal appreciates how much we’re doing for him.”

“I’m sure he will, sir.”

 

* * *

 

_There was a flash of white light._

_They stood between the ends of two beds. On one, a young man of about twenty lay sprawled, dead to the world with his hair cascading across his back. On the other, a younger, taller man tossed and turned, restless in the depths of sleep._

“ _He’s still shorter than me,” was Mustang’s first comment as he looked down at Edward._

_Hawkeye glared at him and knelt to examine Alphonse. “They seem to be healthy. Al has certainly grown since I last saw him.”_

“ _He looks his proper age, you mean. Yes, I’d noticed that.” He wandered to the window and tried to see out. “Where are we now?”_

“ _The north of France,” Diligence supplied, “It borders Germany. But you should not concern yourselves with establishing location. We can provide you with the means to find them.”_

“ _Convenient.”_

“ _Is all this proof enough?”_

_Mustang turned to regard the Gate-creature thoughtfully.“ Assuming it’s all your going to give us until we agree, I suppose it could be worse.”_

 

* * *

 

“Are we nearly there yet?”

“Sir, are you whining because I’m not being sympathetic about a few minor scrapes?”

“No, I’m whining because I’m tired, hungry and getting sunburnt.”

“I warned you.”

“I know, I know. You didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Are we nearly _there_ yet?”

 

* * *

 

“ _You agree to help?”_

The Flame Alchemist’s nod was slow and cautious, hands still tapping the heater to make sure they were back home. _“We’ll have to make arrangements to get me out of the city without comment – you ‘attacking’ me might be to our advantage on that . . .”_

“ _I expect we’ll need supplies,” Hawkeye put in, practically, “Unobtrusive clothes, appropriate walking gear, a tent possibly –”_

“ _Um, Hawkeye? I . . .”_

“ _I’m coming with you, sir,” she told him, flatly._

“ _But –”_

_She rounded on Diligence. “In this other world without alchemy, will he be able to make fire?”_

“ _No. This world’s alchemy only functions when in contact with a suitable quantity of associated matter. You would need to transfer oxygen from here to there en mass for his talents to operate effectively.”_

“ _Sir, remind me when you last had to survive on your wits and fists alone? And of your record with firearms?”_

_That was a cheap shot but he did his best to rally. She didn’t let him get a word in edgeways. “Order me to stay here and I’ll resign my commission and follow you anyway. Try and leave me behind and I shall do the same.” It was all said in an even, matter of fact tone._

_Mustang coughed. “Of course you’re coming Hawkeye.” I’m never leaving you behind again, he tried and failed to add. “I was simply wondering if it was_ safe _for you to do so given that people seem to get dismembered around this Gate of his.”_

_It would have been nice, if slightly petty, if she’d blushed at that. Being who she was, she didn’t._

“ _There would be no danger,” Diligence assured them, “We can fully transfer you without risk to yourselves or the integrity of the Gate.”_

“ _Hm. How?”_

 

* * *

 

The sun was poised to vanish over the horizon when they finally reached the ridge. Given the way he was feeling, Mustang was starting to doubt the cleverness of circumventing physical training with skilfully timetabled alchemic excursions. Hawkeye, naturally, looked as fresh as when they’d started.

“Hold up.” She looked back at him as he dropped his pack next to a boulder and rummaged through his pockets for his gloves. “Since this is probably the last time I’ll be able to use alchemy for a while . . .” Pulling the ignition cloth over his hands, the gloves as comfortable as his own skin, he stepped up onto an outcrop and spread his arms, elbows bent like a conductor. Then he clicked both sets of fingers.

Fire bloomed, twirling streamers of heat and light dancing around them. His mind buzzing with the equations for range and intensity, he crafted them into ethereal shapes, dragons and phoenixes, birds of paradise and lions, griffins and serpents, anything that came to mind. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to just play. None of the images had the clarity that could be achieved with stone but that never mattered. Fire was so much more _alive_.

By way of a finale, he merged all the flames into one and shaped it into the face of his companion surrounded by flowers. Letting it burn out naturally, he leant against the rocks and tried to get his breath back.

“Very impressive,” Hawkeye complimented with a faint smile, “And now you’ve exhausted yourself. “

“’Was worth it,” he mumbled, knees trembling a little.

“Roy Mustang? Riza Hawkeye?” Diligence was standing a little way off, cloak closed again but hood still back. Mustang heaved his rucksack back over his shoulder and they joined him. “This way.”

He led them along the ridge to a ring of squared off stones. Pushing his hand into the ground in the centre, he turned it as he might a key. At once, the enclosed circle of grass slid smoothly down into the depths of the earth.

Mustang’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh look. Another important underground structure. Did we get a job lot or something?”

The chamber was large and heptagonal, each side dominated by a large, stone eyes. Its walls and floor were made from what looked like marble, gold tracery picking out geometric designs. None of them were transmutation circles. They just seemed to be . . . circles. The lump of scrub and dirt deposited them at the centre.

“We created this to assist with your transference,” Diligence explained

“Impressive work. I hope we’re worth all this trouble your going to.”

“So do we, Roy Mustang.”

Another cloaked figure appeared from nowhere in particular. “You will need these.”

Hawkeye took the books and wallet he proffered to here. “Ah, thank you . . .”

The figure bowed his polished head. “You may call me Modesty.”

Suddenly, yet without fuss, four more people in hoods stood around them. They varied in height, the smallest child sized, the tallest easily half again as big as Mustang, each was slender and robed in white. “So . . .” The General eyed the newcomers warily, uncomfortably aware of being trapped in an enclosed space with six very unknown qualities. “What happens now?”

The tallest being moved closer and spoke in a husky female voice. “Now we make it as though you were dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on the edits:
> 
> \- turns out, on reflection, that the Gatekeepers are something completely different from what I originally thought. Funny how that happens.
> 
> \- they are of course pure plot devices but that is sort of the point, if one wants to get a bit meta
> 
> \- Hawkeye and Mustang dead-panning at each other is incredibly fun to write. I should do it more often
> 
> \- still not 100% sure the structure of this chapter works but I like it enough not to complete change it.


	5. Brief Encounters

“You know,” Ed grumbled, shifting in his seat, “I’m sure they make train-seats more uncomfortable over here.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Al looked up from scribbling in a notebook. “You’re just still hung-over.”

“I’m not still hung-over! It’s almost six o’clock! How could I still be hung-over?”

“Well, it took you ‘till midday to get over what you drank with Jacque.”

“That was only ‘cause we got up so early!”

“And if we hadn’t, we’d have missed the market. But even for you, last night was over doing it a little.”

“I was celebrating!”

“I noticed. Where _did_ you learn that song?”

Muttering about treacherous little brothers taking lessons from Mustang, Ed crossed his arms and glowered. Al went back to his writing, biting down a chuckle. The train rattled on through the evening countryside.

“What do you write in that thing anyway?” Ed demanded at last.

“Oh, anything that comes to mind.”

“Such as?”

“Just thoughts and stuff. Language practice. Chemistry. Alc – err . . . just things I can’t get off my mind . . .”

“‘Alchemy’?”

Now it was Al’s turn to shift uneasily. “Sometimes. Why not? It doesn’t work but we spent most of our lives –”

“Hey, I’m not criticising!” Ed laughed, “I catch myself thinking about it as well.” He became serious. “But we could be spending the _rest_ of our lives here . . .”

“Brother, I know that.”

“Oh, hell.” He rubbed his neck. “’Course you do. Sorry Al. I’m being . . . I don’t know.”

Al put the book and pen to one side and leant forward. “What’s eating you, brother? You’ve been acting strange ever since we stole the bomb. _Do_ you think someone’s going to come after it?”

The answer came with a sigh. “No. It’s not that. While we were fixing Jacque’s cart I . . . I realised that I didn’t know what we were going to do next. When we’ve got rid of this thing . . . what do we do? For so long, it’s been one goal after another. The Stone, stopping Scar, fighting the Homunculi, getting home, finding the bomb . . . now though . . . even if there is a way to use this world’s science to get back, we’d never be able to do it on our own. And then . . . we can’t let it happen again, Al, we just can’t.”

_A hand reaching from beneath fallen masonry, limp and dead._ Al swallowed hard. “I know. So we make our homes here. You’re still a genius, brother!”

“You’re no dunce yourself!”

“So we shouldn’t have anything to worry about!”

Almost grudgingly, Ed let the optimism soothe him a little. “Yeah . . . you’re right. _Someone_ must need a couple of decent scientists – hell, a couple of more than decent scientists!”

Glad to see him cheered up, Al picked up his notebook. “Exactly! So you shouldn’t worry. Besides, lets get rid of that” – he jabbed his pen at the rucksack under Ed’s seat – “before we consider anything else.”

A distant thump- _clunk_ announced that the train was beginning to slow. “Wanna stretch your legs, Al?”

“Hm? Oh, no thanks. I’m fine.”

“Well, I do. Mind the luggage.”

 

* * *

 

The station was full of smoke and people. He stepped down from the carriage, ready to bolt back inside at a moment’s notice. Passengers thronged up and down the platform, heaving luggage with them. A boy selling newspapers tugged at his sleeve. Disposed as he was to be indulgent to anyone who made him feel tall, Ed bought one.

Tucking it under his arm, he leant against a pillar, closing his eyes wearily. If he was honest, he knew he wasn’t being entirely truthful with Al. He _did_ still feel hung-over. Headachy, anyway. Whether that was because of alcohol or the way his sober brain kept trying to beat itself up with indecision and guilt, he could not say. “That’s equivalency for you,” he muttered ruefully, “Things on the outside have started to look up. Inside, I can’t stop looking on the dark side.”

“Careful with that! It’s been in the family for _generations_!”

Startled, he turned. A little way down the train, a massive bald man with a huge blonde moustache was directing a group of harried porters as they manoeuvred several heavy-looking cases. Unable to help himself, Ed collapsed into a fit of giggling. What were the chances? Never in a million years had he expected there to be _another_ Armstrong. One was bad enough! At least he wasn’t pulling his shirt off and tossing the trunks in single-handedly.

“Are you all right?” The concerned question came from a tall woman in a serious grey dress. Not so hysterical as to escape a surge of embarrassment, he hiccoughed something about remembering a very good joke and staggered away. Wait ‘till Al heard about this! That somewhere in the world there was an Alex Louis Armstrong to terrorise people with crushing embraces and tales of his family’s history suddenly made everything seem a whole lot more bearable.

The guard’s whistle sent him dashing back aboard and he chortled all the way to their compartment.

 

* * *

 

If he had not left in such a hurry, he might have realised that the tall woman had spoken to him in English. He might even have noticed that the moment she saw his face, all the colour went out of her own.

She watched him vanish in pure, goggle-eyed shock.

“Mademoiselle? Is something wrong?”

“Pardon?”

An elderly porter blinked myopically up at her. “Is something wrong?” he repeated.

“N-no. No, I’m fine.” Recomposing herself, she half-nodded in nervous politeness and departed as fast as she could without breaking into a sprint.

It was only when she glimpsed her reflection in a shop window that she checked her flight, slowing to tuck a few strands of hair back where they belonged.

“Helen?” Another woman, smaller, older but wearing similar clothes, stepped out in front of her.

“My dear! You’re deathly white! Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Anna . . . I . . .” Helen put out an arm to steady herself against the wall. “I was in the station and . . . I thought . . . I swear . . . I saw Edward.”

Anna’s eyes widened. “Edward? But . . . my dear, that’s impossible.”

“I know, I know . . . it can’t have been him but . . . he had the same face, the same eyes . . . It was like seeing a ghost.”

The other lady gently took her free hand. “It must have been quite a shock. But it wasn’t him. It can’t have been.”

“I . . . yes, you’re quite right. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Now . . . the doctor will be waiting for us.”

 

* * *

 

The attic room was not the most spacious of accommodation but it was clean and relatively quiet. Graves tapped his front teeth with a pen and leant back in his chair. Securing such a private space had been about the only thing to have gone right since their arrival. The mix up with the train, the subsequent break down that had stranded them in the town, the Patient’s inexplicable fit . . . Difficulties on the journey were to be expected but on this scale?

One thing was certain. Chambers would not be happy. Not that Chambers ever _was_ happy. Or unhappy, for that matter. But still, he was not someone to whom it was easy to relate problems.

A knock echoed from the door. “Come.”

Anna led Helen inside. Graves bounded from his chair. “Nurse Simons, Nurse Jameson! About time. Has everything been sorted?”

“Yes, doctor,” Anna replied, helping the other woman sit down, “The tickets have been booked, we can leave in the morning.”

“Capital! Um . . . is Jameson all right?”

“She has just had quite a shock but she’ll be fine.”

“How is he?” Helen’s eyes were fixed on the bed at the other end of the room.

“The Patient? Sleeping. Seems to have calmed down. Did you say shock? What do you mean?”

“There was . . . someone at the station who looked like –”

Another knock, louder and firmer than Anna’s, cut her off. Irritably, Graves signalled for quiet and went to fling it open. “Monsieur Graves?” The hotel proprietor poked his head nervously across the threshold. “There is a telephone call for you. The office of a Monsieur Chambers.”

On the verge of snapping at the man, Graves froze. “Chambers? Ah. I see. Ladies, if would excuse me?” The stout Englishman practically ran downstairs.

Anna sniffed. “The man has the backbone of an eel. Honestly! He jumps whenever he hears that name!”

 

* * *

 

“I see.” The speaker toyed with the phone cord as he listened to Graves’ scratchy voice. “I wouldn’t worry. I’m reasonably sure he won’t blame you for the deficiencies of the French train service. _Reasonably_ sure. What of the Patient?” Smooth fingers twisted the flex. “Good. It would have been terribly inconvenient otherwise.” A figure of eight, a spiral, a sine wave. “Not your concern. Concentrate on the matters that you are qualified to deal with. Leave everything else to us.” A sharp tug, erasing the shapes. “Bon voyage, doctor. And do your best to avoid further delays, won’t you?”

He tossed the handset casually onto its cradle. “The hiatus appears to be transient. The good doctor assures me his party will recommence their progress on the morrow.”

“Acceptable.” The measured tone drifted over the whisper of turning pages. “And while I appreciate your desire to expedite proceedings, teasing Graves strikes me as a little unprofessional.”

The telephonist stretched. “It never hurts to remind the dogs that that is what they are.”

“Hmm.” Light flashed briefly off a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. “Graves is my colleague, not your subordinate. Confine your enjoyment to the expense of those you employ.”

He accepted the reprimand by flicking dust from a cuff. “If you insist. But between watching those brats and trying to find Falconer, there are few left here who are worth the effort. Are you sure tracking _children_ is a useful exercise?”

“They are important. Monitoring them can no longer be left to chance.”

“Then use your ‘infallible’ methods.”

“That option is no longer safe. Marquis, if you are truly in need of manpower, call off the search for our stray.”

The Marquis’ fist struck the telephone table hard enough to make it rattle. “No!”

“So be it.” Pen clinked against inkpot. “But you are veering dangerously close to obsession.”

“ _That_ is the pot calling . . .” The insult trailed off very quickly. He cleared his throat. “Have you considered the danger of them realising what’s going on?”

“I have considered _all_ the dangers present. I find that one unlikely. Your men are competent, are they not?”

“I wasn’t referring to the dogs. What if they discover they’ve been handed a –”

“They will not.” The three words were spoken in a very final manner.

“Hn.” Boots clicking on the stonework, the Marquis paced a little. “I trust your judgement, of course. And your faith that all the pieces will be in place in place for the final act.”

“Please don’t mangle your metaphors quite so badly.” This was succeeded by a tired sigh. “If you have reservations about the arrangements, would you kindly make them plain? I have no desire to arrive at a crucial stage and find your resolve lacking.”

“My only reservation, the one I have mentioned to you repeatedly, is the risk you are taking in leaving vital components to wander around free. It would have been far simpler to gather them all up before we moved our operations here.”

“In that case…” A chair creaked as its occupant leaned forward. “Let me try once more to make this perfectly clear. Assembling the Patient, our ‘guest’ and, if necessary, Hohenheim’s children before we are completely ready would leave us wide open to the chance of a coordinated escape attempt. The moment either party learns what we are planning, they will do everything in their power to prevent us continuing. Keeping them scattered and ignorant is entirely to our advantage. If you find that inconvenient, so be it.”

“Message received,” the Marquis smirked, “I’ll go and sit in a corner and twiddle my thumbs until I’m needed.”

“Then could I trouble you to do it somewhere else? I have work to do.”

Throwing an off-hand salute, he marched to the door. “As you command, Mr Chambers, as you command.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the villains, in mood lighting.
> 
> Alternate!Armstrong's family are famed silversmiths who made their fortune in ornamental spoons.
> 
> I'm reasonably sure that neither Helen nor Anna have Shambala counterparts.


	6. Soft Landings

Roy Mustang opened his eye. That he could was definitely a good thing. There were cobblestones a few inches from his nose. That was presumably another. He could feel something fairly solid pressing into his stomach. Possibly a third. Now if only his brain would stop running away whenever he tried to use it, he might be able to get somewhere.

“Sir.” A voice. Where was it coming from? “ _Sir_.” Close by. But he couldn’t quite pin it down . . .

“Roy!”

Like a scalded cat, he sprang away. With his weight lifted Hawkeye was able to sit up, which she did to the sound of a muffled curse. “Sorry, Hawkeye.” He held out a hand. “I didn’t realise where I'd landed.”

“So I gathered.” She accepted the assistance. “We seem to have survived the trip.”

“We do. I’m not sure what I was expecting from a journey to another world, but that definitely was not it.”

The street was shrouded in early morning gloom, deep shadows still clinging to the stone buildings. There was no one else about. “Doesn’t look very ‘other worldly’, does it?”

“No, sir.”

He rounded on her. “You’ve already called me Roy once. As of now, you do not get to call me ‘sir’ again ‘til we’re back in uniform. Clear?”

Her expression was carefully blank. “Clear.”

“Good. What were those books they gave us?”

They proved to be 'Francais' and 'Deutsch' phrase books. The wallet turned out to be stuffed with currency from at least five countries, as well as maps of the same and, in a display of foresight that bordered on genius, a sheaf of train timetables.

“All of which isn’t much use until we know where we are,” Hawkeye was quick to point out. She then prodded Mustang in the chest. “Are you wearing a necklace?”

Frowning, he dug under his shirt. “I wasn’t.”

Pulling his hand out, he opened it palm up. Nestling inside were four glass beads the size of marbles, connected to a fine silver chain. Each contained a hemisphere of coloured material with a hole through its centre.

“Like eyes . . .” He picked one up. The ‘iris’ moved. Intrigued, he tried tilting it. The coloured disc swung so that it constantly pointed in the same direction. “Or do I mean compasses . . .”

Hawkeye took another of them. It acted in the same way. “Bronze, gold . . . The Elrics?”

“Could be. Yes, that makes sense. These two are looking the same way. This one’s solid yellow. Must be ‘Kindness’. But what about this?” The fourth bead was smoky, the colour lost to greyness. All that was clear was the dark spot of the pupil.

“The other person from our world.”

Mustang nodded. “Of course. So this is what our friend in white meant by a means to find our strays. It certainly has the novelty factor –”

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“The smoky one. Hold it up.”

He did. The eye suddenly flashed with a soft white glow. On impulse, he took a step in the direction it was aiming at. The glow became stronger. “Proximity, you think?”

“That would make sense. They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they?”

“Ask me again when we’re through.” He examined the sky. A hint of sunrise was starting to creep into view. “Let’s make use of the dark while we can and track down our unknown quarry. I’d have liked to find Fullmetal first but if this one’s close by . . .”

 

* * *

 

The building was, as far as they could tell, a kind of hotel. They settled on the curb opposite and considered what to do next.

“Standard stake out procedure or as close to it as we can get,” was the General's suggestion, “We wait and see who comes out. With luck, this thing will let us know which one’s our man.”

“Or woman,” Hawkeye added absently.

Something was clearly preoccupying her. After a minute’s silence, she told him what. “S – Those beings, Diligence, the others: as an alchemist, what’s your opinion of them?”

“Technically? Physically very weak, very skilled with alchemy, skin like black marble . . . I have absolutely no idea what to make of them. If they're artificial, they're like no kind of homunculi I've ever heard of. People, maybe, who've transmuted themselves somehow? Obviously, all rational sense tells me that that story about being made by the universe to protect some magic gate at the heart of alchemy is nonsense.”

“It does?”

“Oh yes. My head remains thoroughly unconvinced by everything and is waiting for the rational explanation to come along. It's my instincts that have me worried..”

“They believe him.”

“Right. In complete defiance of years of experience and training, my instincts took one look at Mr Diligence and decided here was someone I could trust even if they told me the sky was green, never mind if they said I could help get Fullmetal back. Brigadier General Mustang the Flame Alchemist clocked off and Roy Mustang the credulous kid came in. Even when I tried, I couldn’t _not_ believe him . . . it's only now that we're here that I'm even beginning to question what the hell we're doing.”

“Hypnosis?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. Whatever it was, I think from the moment he opened his mouth, we didn’t have a choice in the matter. We’d have let him do anything he wanted with us and only offered a token protest.” A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. “And we did.”

The rattle of a passing train drifted out of the distance. “One of us should scout the area.” Concerns voiced, Hawkeye was once more the consummate professional. “We still don’t know our exact location and holes in our knowledge like that will make us stick out in the crowd.”

“Stick out _more_ than we will anyway, you mean.” He stood up. “You’re better equipped to accost our target. I’ll go. You take the, err . . . magic necklace and stay out of sight here. If you spot whoever it is –”

“I’ll ‘accost’ them. Yes, s – yes, of course.”

His mouth curled into a wry smile. “Keep working on that. I’ll be back by sun up.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, he reappeared as the population emerged into dawn light. Now there were more people about, they retreated down a small side street so their discussions could be more private. “This town is called Colmar. From the little I was able to understand, we’re close to this country’s border. The station’s that way, main roads lead off over there, there and there and, most importantly, there’s what looks like a bakery back the way I came. I for one am starving.”

This time it was Mustang who stayed to keep an eye on the hotel, since Hawkeye had spent his absence studying the phrase books and therefore stood a better chance of securing breakfast. Ten minutes later they were both doing their best to eat pastries with some sort of dignity. It was an uphill struggle.

Activity opposite was confined to the milkman, a pair of elderly ladies and a fat man who went out and came back with a paper. The eye did not react to any of them.

“I wonder who it is.”

Hawkeye swallowed the last of her food and looked sideways in curiosity.

“Well, who else apart from Ed and Alphonse has ever ‘crossed over’ to here?”

She considered. “I assume Edward was the only one who ever came back. Others might not have been so lucky.”

“Hmm. Didn’t their father vanish about the same time Fullmetal first did?”

“By all accounts, his sudden absences were nothing unusual.”

“That’s true. But you know, smoky as this is, it could be gold underneath.”

“Can’t say I see that – wait, did it just . . . ?”

The second flare of brilliance inside the bead was even more noticeable. The hotel’s front door opened.

The first thing to emerge was a wheelchair propelled by a short, white haired woman in a grey dress. She parked the contraption on the pavement and disappeared back inside. A minute later she returned, arms heaped with blankets. Next, a younger woman backed out, looking concernedly into the hallways. The object of her attention proved to be two men – the hotel owner and the fat newspaper-buyer – carrying between them a huddled form wrapped in bandages. With the utmost care, they placed their burden in the wheelchair, securing whoever it was with waist straps and one of the blankets. The owner scuttled back indoors and a couple of suitcases were passed out. This ritual complete, the older woman seized the chair again and the group proceeded up the street, toward the station.

Mustang raised a laconic eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

“Whew.” The train lurched into motion and he lurched into the compartment wall. “Ow. That was fun.”

“Hitting your head or trying to get through a railway station quickly when no one in the ticket office understands a word you’re saying?”

“Both. It didn’t help that they were all staring at you. Doesn’t look like people here are used to women in trousers.”

Hawkeye shot him a look. When she had satisfied herself that he honestly hadn’t been implying or hinting at anything, she went back to studying the map. “That’s a shame. I didn’t pack my summer dress.”

 

Deciding that there was no safe answer to that, Mustang settled for asking if she knew where they were going.

“North east. Towards the border with Germany. Though of course we have no idea where they’ll get off.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to spot. We know they’re in the last coach and they won’t be going anywhere fast with that wheelchair. Any points of local interest along the way?”

“No idea.” She bit her lip.

“What?”

“It may just be coincidence . . . but . . . the eyes.”

He picked them up from the seat next to him. “What about . . . oh.”

With the exception of the smoky one, all of the beads were ‘looking’ due north east. The train was taking them precisely where they wanted to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Colmar is a French town in the Alsace region. It looks like an interesting place to visit and I'm a little sorry I didn't make room for some description of the architecture
> 
> \- Eating pastries with dignity is an effort doomed to failure.
> 
> \- I feel I should have given them hats. Imagine they have hats.


	7. Home from Home

“Whoever said that the train is the best way to travel should be shot.”

“At dawn?”

“At any damn time you can catch him!”

“It’s not their fault the connection was delayed.”

“ _Delayed_?! We had to wait all night on that damn platform!”

“That’s still not their fault. And it wasn’t too bad. Not cold or anything. No worse than if we’d had to sleep on the train.”

Al knew that his answer was logical and well thought out. He was also well aware that logic was the last thing his brother was going to listen to. Ed was in the mood to gripe about anything within reach and it was safer to let him grumble his frustrations away than risk bodily harm to innocent bystanders.

Being mid morning, there was no shortage of those. The streets of Strasbourg thronged with people going about their day to day business in complete ignorance of the dreadful weapon being carried through their midst. The staff drew a few quizzical glances but on the whole the Elrics’ passing went completely unnoticed. They were just a couple of normal looking boys after all.

An absurd thought struck Al and for an instant he imagined himself as an animated suit of armour striding along among the business men and paper boys.

“What are you sniggering about?”

“Oh, nothing. Hey, brother? Think Noah will have got here ahead of us?”

“Eh. We made good time. Shouldn’t think so.” Ed shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Mid-nod, Al felt something against his neck. A second later, he felt the same thing on his nose and looked skywards. Above them, the sun was rapidly disappearing behind a wall of black clouds. “Looks like rain . . .”

 

* * *

 

The crash of Ed flinging the front door open almost drowned out the thunder. He shot into the hallway like a very wet cannonball, cursing enthusiastically. Al tumbled in after him, spluttering from the force of the sheets of rain now pummelling the town.

“Should have taught you to fight with an umbrella not a stick!” Ed spat, shaking and sending water flying from his hair, “Argh!”

“Stop! You’re getting everything wet!”

“Good! Then it won’t just be me!”

“It _isn’t_ just you! Just . . . stay still and drip. I’ll go and get towels.” Already barefoot, Al sprang past and darted up the stairs.

Making a sound somewhere between ‘urble’ and ‘blargh’, the remaining brother shed his overcoat. Leaving it where it fell, he stormed into the kitchen and started rummaging for dry matches. Luckily, they had had the foresight to stock up on wood when they’d rented the place so there was fuel for the stove but he couldn’t remember if they’d left the means to light it. Oh, wouldn’t Mustang love this. _‘Need a light, Fullmetal?’_ His hand closed around a little cardboard box. Relieved, he pulled it out of the cupboard and went to wrestle with the cast iron monolith that was their stove.

It was only when he slumped down in front of the blessed heat that he realised that part of him would give almost anything for that measured, smirking voice to have drifted in right then. Strange the things you found yourself missing.

“Here!” He turned at exactly the right moment to receive a towel full in the face.

Eventually, after the chase around the room did most of the stove’s work for it, they set about the serious business of devouring what groceries had survived the downpour. Not that anything had been irretrievably lost, but like them, the food needed time to dry off.

“So much for the good weather, huh?”

“It’s just a summer storm, brother. It’ll pass.”

“Yeah, but before or after it gets through the roof?” He swallowed a chunk of bread. “I’m not paying that tight-fisted landlord more because the attic got flooded.”

Al mumbled non-committally, most of his attention reserved for the map spread over one half of the table. His right forefinger tapped thoughtfully. “There’s a lake about twenty miles away that’s pretty deep.”

“Let’s see.” Ed leaned over. “Yeah. Out of the way, too. Should be _fun_ getting up there but no one’s gonna be in a hurry to drag the place.”

“D’you think it’d be a good idea to scatter the components? You know, just in case…”

“Yeah . . . the bits that have already been taken off, anyway. I’d try breaking more of it if I was sure it wouldn’t go off in our faces . . . those Thule scientists were lucky they didn’t end up in little bits themselves if you ask me.”

 

* * *

 

“Sodding rain.” The guard bounced his head against the hut’s wall, hoping in vain that some of the thunderous drumming would be drowned out. It wasn’t, nor was the thankfully increasingly distant rumbling of clouds crashing together. “I’ll kill Jennings for sticking me out here! Git must have known –”

He stopped. There was a new, deeper note to the pounding, which meant either the rain had suddenly got a lot heavier or someone was trying to beat down the door. Both options held the same lack of attraction. Growling, he got up and went to check, throwing the hatch open with considerable force.

A pair of deep-set eyes glared through the slit, followed by a stream of light-speed French. “Uh?” responded the guard.

A growl came from outside. “Arh! Open and let me in, you dull-witted cretin!”

Recognition and surprise spread over the guard’s face. “Hey, you aren’t supposed to be back here!”

There was another, louder, angrier growl. “Idiot! Let me in this _instant_!” The way in which this was said did not encourage argument.

Quickly dealing with the bolts and latches, the guard admitted a short, wiry man in a heavy coat. He had all the attributes of someone you wouldn’t look at twice if you glimpsed him on the street. Which was exactly the point. “English dolt!” the newcomer raged in a pronounced Gallic accent, “Tell the main building I’m here! I need to see the Marquis at once!”

“But –”

“Can’t you understand your own language? At once!”

 

* * *

 

“I do hope this is good, Luke. I recall giving you and Abel specific instructions to remain on the children’s coattails.” The Marquis, his back to the other man, paused to take a sip of his wine. “And to only report via telephone.”

“They’re here.”

Another sip. “Define your terms, my friend, define your terms. Who is here? And what, for that matter, do you mean by ‘here’?”

Luke, coat gone to reveal a neatly tailored suit, struggled to remain patient. “Those very _children_. We followed them as you ordered and they led us right back here! They’re in the town now!”

A third, prolonged sip and the Marquis placed his glass to one side. “And you felt the need to charge through the foulest weather in months to deliver this bombshell in person? Really, Luke. I didn’t know you were so impulsive.”

“But surely we should secure them at once! With them so close, it would be child’s play!”

“It would. However, our dear employer has issued an edict to the contrary. Until he decrees otherwise, our task is observation, not interception.”

“Then go and tell him and make him change his mind! It’s ridiculous to have us chasing about across the continent when we could have them locked up here!”

Slowly, the Marquis turned his head, just so that one dark eye and a lifted eyebrow became visible. “You wouldn’t by any chance be telling me what to do, would you?” His voice was icy.

Luke flinched and stammered that that was not what he was doing at all. He was cut off. “Good. Mr Chambers is unavailable at present. If you would be so kind as to pen a few lines detailing the situation, I shall inform him of it when he returns. Anything more is up to him.”

“O-of course. I didn’t mean to imply –”

“No, of course you didn’t. A slip of the tongue, I’m sure. Consider it forgiven and forgotten.” Pearly teeth glinted. “Write your report and return to your duties with a light heart.”

Stuttering thanks, Luke started for the door.

“Oh, and Luke?” He went rigid. The teeth glinted again. “Don’t bother to wait for the rain to stop.”

 

* * *

 

“Brother?” Ed turned to find Al in the doorway, already in his nightshirt and scrubbing at his eyes. “Are you going to sleep tonight?”

He grinned. “Eventually. You go up. I’ll try not to disturb you when I come in.” Al seemed to accept this statement and disappeared. His brother sighed ran a hand through his hair. He still had it in a ponytail, like Al’s only very much longer. Perhaps he should start braiding it again . . .

He was suddenly acutely aware of how long he’d been sitting hunched over the table. The pain shot up his spine, forcing him to stretch. “Ooh . . . _ow_! Dumb metal. This is all your fault!” The broken pieces strewn over the table didn’t answer.

It had taken all afternoon to destroy the components the Thule Society had extracted from their prized possession. What purpose they had once served, he wasn’t sure, although he suspected one of them had been the detonator. Thankfully, nothing had exploded as he used a screwdriver, a chisel, a hammer and an unnaturally strong right hand to kill it beyond hope of repair. Huskisson’s partially-gutted, dial-encrusted masterpiece sat in the middle of it all, a perfectly innocent looking ball of metals.

Hah. Innocent. Yeah, right.

He got up and took it in both hands. They’d found a chest in the attic, nice and big and heavy. Kicking the lid open, he carefully lowered the bomb inside, on to a bed of old sackcloth. If the landlord missed them and complained, so be it. As far as Ed was concerned, the whole lot was bound for a watery grave as surely as the rest of the remains were due for a mountaintop burial.

Yawning, he closed the box and went to wash his hands. The thunder had stopped long ago but the rain still pattered against the window. Nice to hear when you were moments away from a snug, warm bed. Whatever other complaints he had about the house, the beds weren’t bad. Even better given that it was beds, plural. Sharing during their travels had not been enjoyable, what with them both being restless sleepers and the constant danger of Al getting brained by auto-mail. He wondered idly if anyone had ever thought of building the stuff from anything other than steel. Something nice and soft . . . after all, it couldn’t be comfortable for someone you were . . . _involved_ with, could it? Except if that someone was Winry, of course. Then she probably wouldn’t let you into bed if you _weren’t_ half shiny plates and softly whining motors –

Ed started splashing cold water into his face, desperately trying to drive those images as far out of his mind as they’d go. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her. Stop thinking about her. Especially like that. Just don’t.

Slowly, reluctantly, his brain let go and he was left dripping and wide-awake. Damn. So much for being tired. Now he’d be up for hours.

Resigning himself to a long night, he wrung out his hair and wandered about looking for something to read. Through a general lack of choice, he settled on a copy of Newton’s _Principia Mathematica_. Alfons had given it to him as a birthday present and it still felt good to remember his friend’s shy smile as he’d handed it over with a quip about ‘the most famous alchemist of _this_ world’.

“Wonder what you’d have thought about Alphonse . . .” Ed murmured to the stained pages, “He looks a lot like you now . . . funny, eh? I think you’d have liked him. Hell, _everyone_ likes Al –”

The sharp _ratatatat_ of the door-knocker split the quiet as effectively as a gunshot.

“What the . . . ?” Who on earth would be out in this weather? More to the point, who on earth would be out in this weather and knocking on their door? Who even knew they were there, except . . .

“Idiot!” He slapped his forehead. “Noah!”

The knocking started again, louder. Bounding up, he dashed out into the hall. “Alright, I’m coming! Key, key . . .” Finding the implement in his back pocket, he fumbled it into the lock and reached for the latch.

 


	8. The Long Way Round

Helen Jameson rubbed her eyes wearily. She had never been able to sleep properly on trains. Or boats. For her, there would always be something irrationally _wrong_ about resting when you weren’t still, no matter how comfortable the surroundings. And the carriage was far from being the lap of luxury.

Opposite, her Patient sat propped upright, apparently doing what she was incapable of. His breathing was regular, calm and even. That made her feel better. He deserved some peace. Personally, she thought that he should never have been moved from the hospital. A trip across Europe seemed so . . . unnecessary given the circumstances. But, of course, Mr Chambers thought differently and what Mr Chambers thought, Dr Graves did . . . There was a movement in the corner of her eye. She lifted her head. What she saw surprised her more than a little.

A man stood outside the compartment, his hand lifted to tap the glass. He was not particularly tall, nor especially broad and would have been completely unremarkable if it weren’t for his face. It was, or had once been, handsome, in a vaguely Russian way, with cool obsidian eyes beneath a thatch of straight black hair. Now though, the left side was obscured by a triangle of dark felt and she thought she could see a hint of scaring running into the shadows under his ear.

Since she was both a nurse and old enough to have seen what the world could do to people, she did not stare for more than a second. As unexpected as this visitation was, there was no need to be rude. Rising, she slid the door back as quietly as she could – so as not to disturb the Patient – and, in rather halting French, asked if he wanted something.

At that, his expression became helpless and he scratched the back of his head.

“Um, I’m afraid I don’t speak . . .”

“Oh!” His English was perfect, if very oddly accented. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise!”

“Please, don’t apologise.” He smiled, quite charmingly. “I’m the one who should be doing that. I shouldn’t be disturbing a fellow passenger but I noticed you at the station and that you were a nurse and, well . . .” Embarrassed, he waved at the patch. “I don’t want to be a trouble but this suddenly started aching terribly and I wondered if . . .”

Not what she had expected but, then, she hadn’t known what to expect.

“I see . . . well . . . err, I can take a look.” She glanced around. All the nearby compartments were occupied. “You’d better come in, but please be quiet. I don’t want to wake him.”

He slipped in and settled comfortably in one of the empty seats. There was something indefinably cat-like about him, she decided as he reached up to remove his eye-patch. Just a hint of an attitude that was at home anywhere. Beneath the patch, the side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. A thick gouge had been smashed into his face from the start of his cheek bone to just above his nose. His left eye peered milky-white and blank from a lopsided socket. Tilting his head up to the light confirmed her suspicions. “This is a bullet wound, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“From the war?”

“Yes. It aches quite a lot of the time, actually, this is just worse than usual.”

Finishing her examination, she sat back, frowning slightly. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help to you. I can’t see anything that looks unusually angry but not knowing your medical history, I can’t really speak with any authority. You could wait for Dr Graves . . .”

“Would that be a problem?”

“I . . . ah, I wouldn’t like to say.”

“Ah.” The charming smile became knowing. “Well, I shan’t bother you further. Besides, I doubt I have anything to complain about compared to your patient.” He nodded across the compartment. “Is he likely to recover?.”

“I, ah, yes. He is. Slowly. But surely. This trip . . . Dr Graves believes a change of scenery will help. There’s a gentleman he knows from his time at Cambridge who offered room at some sort of institution he runs. With luck, that will help things along.”

“May I ask what happened to him?”

She hesitated. He _was_ a complete stranger, as pleasant as he seemed . . .

The decision was promptly taken away from her.

“Excuse me.” Graves filled the doorway, his voice cold. Anna hovered behind him, exuding neutrality. “This is a private compartment.”

The gentleman rose at once and gave Graves an odd little half-bow. “My apologies, sir. This wound of mine was hurting and I happened to notice there was a medical party aboard. I rather selfishly took advantage of the situation.”

“I see.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid we can’t help you. I suggest you seek attention in one of the towns.”

“Of course.” Another smile, this one placating. “Sorry for intruding.”

He left, getting around Graves with a little difficulty and vanishing along the corridor. Helen stood as well, smoothing her skirt nervously. “Doctor, I –”

“This is not good enough, Jameson.” Graves’ jowls wobbled sternly. “We are _not_ here as a charitable mission to attend to the needs of anyone who strays into view. I would trouble you to remember where your duties lie.”

“Yes doctor,” she acknowledged meekly.

 

* * *

 

The moment he was out of view of the doctor and his nurses, Mustang’s smile dropped away. He walked the rest of the way with his eye narrowed.

“I take it that didn’t quite go as planned.” Hawkeye didn’t even have to look up from her book.

“No,” he replied, sitting down, “The fat man came back from his lunch before I could get much more than sympathy.”

“Nothing useful at all?”

“Well . . . I got a good look at their patient. It’s a he but apart from that, and that he’s recovering ‘slowly but surely’ from something, all I can tell you is that he’s covered head to toe in bandages.”

“And?” Hawkeye prompted, turning the page.

“The nurse I spoke to, the dark haired one. When she talked about him, she seemed to come alive, light up, however you want to put it. The professional attitude was still there but I think she cares about him a great deal.”

“Interesting. No clue as to who he is?”

“None.”

They sat in silence for a while, the countryside rattling past the window. The alchemist adjusted his eye-patch.

“ _Does_ it hurt?”

“Hmm?”

Hawkeye pointed. “Your eye. Does it actually hurt?”

“I don’t really pay it any attention any more.”

She fixed him with a considering look, then snapped the book shut. “We’ll have to be careful. Now they’ve seen you up close, it’ll look even more suspicious if they see us following them.”

“Then we make sure they don’t see us, don’t we?”

 

* * *

 

The sign on the platform announced that they were in 'Gare de Strasbourg'. The station was as grand as any Mustang had ever seen and it took them a moment to get their bearings amid the rush of the morning crowds.

They caught up with their quarry on the forecourt, under warm sunshine that was quickly vanishing behind a bank of ominously black clouds. Dr Graves, a target far too large to miss, was standing at the roadside, in deep and heated discussion with a man in a dark suit. The two nurses were clustered around the wheelchair and its bandaged occupant.

“New friend?” Mustang nodded at the suit.

“Looks like it,” Hawkeye muttered back, “Driver perhaps?”

“I don’t see a . . . wait.”

A car drew up, grey and new and out of place on the cobbled road. A uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the rear door so that the Patient could be lifted in. Graves gesticulated and the suit made placating motions as a second, identical vehicle arrived. They got into that one while the nurses followed the Patient.

“If I were to find a taxi,” mused Mustang, “and shout ‘follow those cars’ . . .”

“You would be making yourself look like an idiot.”

“That’s what I thought.” He fished beneath his shirt and drew out the smoky eye. “Best foot forward time.”

 

* * *

 

Thunder crashed and Helen heard a faint whimper from her left. Smiling sympathetically, she reached over and gently squeezed a linen-encased hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered, “It’s only thunder. It can’t hurt you.” At her voice, he quietened and she felt his fingers shift slightly, as though trying to squeeze back. Happy that she’d soothed him, she settled down to watch the rain.

Their surroundings were swamped by the squall, the landscape reduced to a grey distortion of trees and fields. The weather had turned from ominous to miserable about five minutes into the journey and now, half an hour later, it looked to be approaching forty-days-and-nights standard. “Nearly there,” the driver grunted.

Lights appeared in the distance, dirtied by the rain. These quickly resolved themselves into the windows of an imposing stone building, blazing out from behind a tall metal fence. The car swung on to a long driveway and was waved through the gate by a soggy guard.

Awaiting them beneath a number of umbrellas was a small army of attendants. They swept down upon the newcomers and soon everyone was standing in a large reception room, trying not to drip on anything expensive. Helen patted the Patient’s hand again as he uttered a soft moan. It couldn’t have been pleasant to be manhandled so much. Graves paced, looking sour. Whether that was because of the weather or because at any moment the dreaded Mr Chambers would show his face, she found it hard to tell. Anna, being Anna, looked neat, proper and calm. One of the attendants – they were almost indistinguishable from one another – opened a door at the far end.

The first impression Chambers made on Helen was of blandness. Tall, thin, dark haired and bespectacled, he reminded her of nothing so much as a bank manager. There was simply nothing distinctive about him. He might as well have had all his colour and charisma washed away by the rain.

Graves jumped as if a hound of Hell had just bitten his ankle and stumbled towards him. “Ah, Chambers, old boy. Sorry about the delay –”

“Irrelevant, Thomas.” Chamber’s voice was flat, dull and, frankly, lifeless. “All that matters is that you are here.” He crossed to them in a stately glide, moving in a perfectly straight line. Helen found she was gripping a wheelchair handle and forced herself to let go. Why on Earth did she suddenly feel so nervous?

Chambers halted before the chair, examining the Patient. His glasses shone. “Hello again, my friend.” There was still no warmth in his words. “I hope the trip was not too tiring.” He spun with mechanical precision. “The hospital wing is this way. His quarters have been prepared, as have yours. I will introduce you to the other members of the institution in due course. You will all have to report to the Marquis as soon as you have settled.”

“Th-the Marquis?” Graves gulped.

“Yes. He has taken charge of security here. He will need to know your faces and to issue you with passes.”

An attendant took charge of the wheelchair so Helen was free to move close to Anna. “How odd. This place . . . it’s almost . . . military.”

“It is, isn’t it? What do you think of our host?”

“He’s . . . not what I anticipated.”

“No. A very odd fish.”

The two women hurried after the procession.

 

* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, he had no great objection to rain as a concept. It helped pretty flowers grow and things. But being stuck in the middle of a field at the mercy of a blatantly vindictive batch of it was not one of his favourite pastimes. Hawkeye, as ever, was utterly unfazed. A tornado could not have shaken the woman. He pitied the one that tried. However, even she succumbed to _some_ human weaknesses eventually. “Do you think we can gain anything more here?”

He blinked. Was the question a joke? “Only pneumonia. How about going back to that town, finding rooms for the night and coming back to investigate when the rain stops?”

“Sounds like a very good idea.”

The walk back along muddy roads was less than pleasant. The situation was only exacerbated when they managed to get lost. How, Mustang wasn’t sure, but by the time a two hour out bound journey had morphed into a three-hour-and-counting return trek, he knew the conclusion was inevitable.

Very much eventually, they tramped back into what was recognisably the civilised part of Strasbourg. No longer caring about getting wet, the Probably-Never-Going-To-Be-Dry-Enough-To-Make-A-Spark-Again Alchemist flopped down onto some impressive steps with a groan of hunger. “I told you that sign was pointing the wrong way!”

“No, you didn’t,” Hawkeye corrected, dropping down beside him.

“I didn’t?”

“No. Your precise words were ‘thank the gods, only a mile to go’.”

“Oh. Well, I’m tired and hungry and waterlogged, so how am I supposed to remember all these trivial little details?”

She sighed. “We have to find somewhere to stay.”

“Fine, fine. Next time we do this, we’re bringing the whole office. That way we won’t have to do all the walking.” He reluctantly got up. “Hold on. Did those maps have hotels marked on them?”

“Yes, I think so. But since you’ve got them, I can’t be sure.”

“I’ve . . . oh, yes. Inner pocket.” Even more reluctantly, he unbuttoned his coat. “Yergh. Now I’m even more . . .”

His shirt was glowing. Or, more accurately, the bulge that was the compass-eyes was. “That’s odd. I thought we were out of range of –” He stopped. All thought of warm beds evaporated. He clawed the necklace out into the open. The eyes they’d identified as pointing towards the Elric brothers were lit with the same soft light they’d seen for the patient in Colmar.

Had any of the locals been inclined to twitch aside their shutters at that point, they would have borne witness to the sight of two highly trained Amestrian soldiers pelting their way through rain-swept streets with the restraint of children who’ve just noticed the chocolate shop up the next hill. Nearly skidding into a lamppost, Mustang waved the necklace like a magic charm. The gold and bronze irises were almost lost to a blaze of white. He could just discern that they were aiming at a narrow house on the other side of the market place.

“There!” he whooped, not caring who he disturbed. In seconds, his hand was around the door-knocker and he was hammering for all his worth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I toned down the extent of Mustang's injury in the rewrite, partly because I now have a better idea of how eye-injuries work and partly to emphasise the similarity with Bradley  
> \- In the original version, I never actually decided where the Chambers Institute was located. After an evening's bashing of Google Maps, I decided that Strasbourg made the most sense as a location. The big station there (Gare de Strasbourg) is really quite impressive too.


	9. Intermission 1: Miss Rockbell Entertains

It did not rain often in Rush Valley but when it did, it _poured_.

Half an ear on the incessant pattering, Winry wondered if the weather was as bad in South City. For Dominic and Paninya’s sake, she hoped not. Long journeys at unhealthy hours to make emergency repairs would be bad enough without getting drenched into the bargain.

Stretching, the straw-haired girl stood back and admired her latest project. The intricate mechanism of a replacement forearm lay across the workbench, gears and wires poised to spring to life. The order was perfectly ordinary – a man who’d got his hand mangled by farm machinery – but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take satisfaction in a job well done. It would need testing and calibrating but it was basically finished. One down, fifteen or so to go.

Usually, she would have charged straight onto the next build, wasting no time in gathering components and tools. But hunger and thirst were making their presence felt in a way that was not easily ignored. So, stomach grumbling, she wandered into the little kitchen and went in search of food.

A hastily constructed sandwich later, she ambled back to the shop floor. The weather was getting to her, she decided. Her enthusiasm had gone AWOL and the unheard-of prospect of an early bed was starting to sound appealing. There was nothing urgent in the book and she couldn’t start on Mrs Kite’s leg anyway, not until those new bearings were delivered. True, Dominic would be annoyed to know she’d slacked off but there was no reason that he should know. A good night’s rest and she could catch up in double quick time.

Zoned out as she was, the first she knew of someone coming into the shop was a reflection glimpsed in an absently set-aside auto-mail panel, the briefest flash of red and black.

Red and black . . .

Winry whirled, words catching in her throat. The man blinked blue eyes at her, his hand still on the door. Water dripped profusely from his long black coat, now unbuttoned to show part of a maroon vest.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, voice soft and deep, “Were you expecting someone else?”

“What? Oh, no, sorry, I . . .” She nodded and shook at the same time, stopped herself and tried again. “You surprised me.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “Force of habit. I was brought up in mortal dread of what would happen if I opened a door noisily. If you’re busy . . . I don’t want to interrupt . . .”

Grateful that, intentionally or otherwise, he had given her time to recover her composure, Winry shook her head firmly. “I’m not busy at all. What can I do for you?”

He smiled meekly, closed the door properly and approached the counter, tugging back his hood. It disgorged a pleasant, slender face topped with curly brown hair that was not quite long enough to tie back. “Well . . . this is going to sound a little odd. I don’t actually need auto-mail. What I’m looking for is someone who will make me a pair of gauntlets.”

She took her turn to blink in surprise.

He ploughed on. “I, err, I don’t mean bulky armour though. I need something that will move with my hands. There aren’t many armourers about these days so I thought, maybe, I could find an engineer who wasn’t too busy and would be willing to humour me.” His laugh was self-deprecating.

Rubbing her chin, Winry leant against a cabinet. “Gauntlets . . . ?”

“Nothing fancy,” he assured her, “Just metal gloves with a thick plate over the back of the hand. But I do need them to move well.”

It couldn’t be too hard, could it? Auto-mail hands were basically gauntlets filled with motors. Making them comfortable to wear would be a bit tricky . . .

Guilty, her eyes slid to the thick ledger in the corner. “Ah . . . when I said I wasn’t busy, I was kinda exaggerating. I’d like to help but . . . well, my boss doesn’t really like doing work on anything that isn’t essential. I mean, we make auto-mail as a necessity, not for fashion. Not that those gloves would be, I’m sure! It’s just . . .”

“I get it.” He smiled again. “Indulging the whims of a wandering experimenter can’t get in the way of replacing someone’s leg. Very proper. I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Hey, hang on.” Through the window, she could see just how bad things had got. “You can’t go back out into that!”

“I don’t really have a choice. Besides, I’m already wet . . .”

“Nuh-huh.”

She swung herself over the counter and held out a hand imperiously. “Give me your coat. I’ll hang it up to dry. You can stay here ‘til the rain eases a bit. I may not be able to help you with your gauntlets but it’d be inhuman to kick you out into a storm like this. And I know for a fact that there aren’t any hotels for at least half a mile.”

He wavered. “If you’re sure . . .”

“Of course I am! Anyway, I could use the company.” That was true enough. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone after thinking he’d been . . . someone else. He seemed nice and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t defend herself if necessary.

Giving in, the man shrugged off the coat, revealing travelling clothes and sturdy boots. And a loop of silver watch chain at his belt.

“Urr . . . there’s nothing valuable in this is there?” she inquired as she took the mass of black cloth.

“Shouldn’t be.”

“Right . . . hey, want some coffee?”

He did (if it wasn’t too much trouble) so she found the two cleanest mugs and a couple of fairly comfortable chairs. It was as he reached for his drink that she saw the lines of ink running across his palm and had an excuse to ask. “You’re an alchemist?”

Eyes widening, he paused. Then he chuckled and laid his hands out for inspection. “I suppose these are a bit of a give away.” Transmutation circles were tattooed over both palms, the right in blue, the left in green.

“Do they, err, do different things?”

“Yes . . . this one . . . um, have you got a bit of scrap metal?”

Winry fished out an off cut and handed it over. He placed it flat and touched it with his right forefinger. There was a flash of purple. When it had faded, a perfect alchemical diagram had been etched into the steel. This he tapped and with a second flash, this yellow, the scrap reformed into a sculpture of a rose.

The mechanic laughed and clapped. “One circle to draw another. Clever! How about the other one?”

“This?” He flexed his left hand. “This one I use to fly.”

She stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Heh. Sorry. I don’t really mean that. It adjusts air pressure. I can use it to shoot myself into the air like a cannonball. It’s quite fun, actually. Going up, anyway. Coming down is a bit . . . difficult.”

“I guess it would be.”

There was a silence as they concentrated on their coffee.

“Um . . . are you a _State_ Alchemist?”

Now he stared at her. “No. What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, sorry! I just saw your watch chain and thought . . .”

“This?” Digging in his trouser pocket, he produced a perfectly ordinary watch without any obvious markings on the case. “Just a family heirloom. Funny though. I _am_ considering whether to go to Central to take the exam. The volume of knowledge the State Alchemists have access to is a pretty good incentive even if, as the Independents are so quick to point out, you get leashed to the Military.”

“Would you have a problem with that?”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. I’m still wavering. The State has greater resources but the Indies offer greater freedom.” He shrugged. “My research won’t go anywhere until I get the right texts. It’s a choice I’m going to have to make sometime.”

Looking him up and down, Winry pursed her lips. “Do you want some advice from someone who’s no right to give it?”

Intrigued by her sombre tone, he nodded. “Sure.”

“You shouldn’t sign your life away to the military just for a few books. I . . . knew people who got terribly hurt because they did that. You shouldn’t have to kill with your skills and if you join up . . .” She held his gaze for a long while, neither speaking.

It was the alchemist who looked away. He got up and put his hands in his pockets and paced a little. “Thank you. You’re right. I have no . . . _desire_ to hurt others. No one should have.”

“Yeah . . .” Suddenly blushing, she hid behind her hair. “I shouldn’t be telling you your business. I don’t know anything about you, it’s just . . .” She fiddled with the steel rose. “Wait a minute.”

Holding it up, she pointed to his right hand. “This is why you want gauntlets, isn’t it? So you can draw transmutation circles on them?”

“Yes!” Laughing, he ran fingers through his hair. “People get a bit annoyed if you carve circles into their possessions so I figured making them in gloves would be better all round. I did try fabric ones but they kept falling apart.”

“And you need them to be flexible so you can handle things dexterously. I get it.”

“But you still can’t help.”

“Uh . . .”

“Please, don’t worry about it. Hmm. The rain seems to have let up at last.”

It had, so Winry dashed into the back to retrieve his coat.

“You’ve been very kind,” he told her as he put it on, “I feel a bit of a heel for taking advantage of your hospitality without bringing you anything but a distraction . . .”

“Well, I’m keeping this!” she answered, twirling the rose, “And . . . I know! Promise me that when you’ve found someone who can make those gloves for you, you’ll come back and show me how you fly. You don’t get to drop _that_ into the conversation and not show something for it!”

He put a fist to his heart. “Then on my honour, I promise just that.”

She held the door for him and as he exited, he turned to her again. “And . . . whoever you thought I was . . I hope they come back to you soon.”

Slightly stunned, she mouthed thanks. Then caught his arm. “I just realised. I never asked your name.”

“It’s Michael,” he smiled, “Michael Dorian.”

“I'm Winry Rockbell.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Winry.” With that he moved off, long, loping strides carrying him up the street.

Winry watched him go, replaying what he’d said over in her mind. _I hope they come back to you soon . . ._

“Yeah,” she whispered, “If only.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There's an intermission roughly every seven or eight chapters in this thing, just to liven things up a bit. And to provide the requisite dramatic tension at important moments by having the narrative abruptly change direction when it is least convenient.
> 
> \- For those playing along at home, Michael Dorian looks a bit like Anton Yelchin.


	10. Seeing is Believing

Ed opened the door. Ed saw the two people standing on the doorstep. Ed closed the door.

More precisely, he slammed it and pressed his back against it. “I did not just see that. I did not just see that. I _did not just see that_!” The door-knocker started up again, loud and insistent.

OK. Think straight. There was someone at the door. But it couldn’t be who he’d thought he’d seen. He must be overtired or imagining things or . . .

Hey, wait. There’d been another Hughes, another Gracia, another Bradley, hell, even another Armstrong. So logically, there had to be . . .

Which meant he’d just slammed the door on two complete strangers.

Al’s look of disapproval appeared clearly in his mind's eye. He spun round and lifted the latch again.

“Fullmetal, what the hell are you –”

“Sorry! I thought you were –”

The door came to a juddering halt. The two men stared at each other, one with an eyebrow raised, the other with eyes bulging. Ed’s jaw kept moving but no sound came out. Mustang’s eyebrow rose higher.

Keeping the door still, Ed slowly and deliberately pinched his left wrist. Pain shot up his arm. He looked down at the rapidly discolouring skin and let go. “OK. Not a dream.”

“Fullmetal . . .”

“I haven’t told anyone but Noah that name . . .”

“Fullmetal.”

“And Afons . . .”

“Ed.”

“No one could have . . .”

“Edward.”

“But it’s impossible . . .”

“PIPSQUEAK!”

His head jerked up, a vein twitching at his temple. Mustang exhaled. “Fullmetal, this gap might be wide enough for you to fit through but us normal sized people won’t.”

Finally, after a monumental struggle, Ed managed to some string words together again. “Fuck me . . . it really is you, isn’t it?”

“The one and only. Now open this damn door properly and let us in before we drown!”

Dumbly, he obeyed. Mustang and Hawkeye jumped inside and for the second time that day, the hall was full of people soaked to their skins. Moving on automatic, Ed closed the door. He rested his head against it for a moment before facing them. Mustang dropped a rucksack into his arms.

“Oof!”

“Thanks, Fullmetal. I’ve been carrying that all day.”

Hawkeye looked at him.

“What?”

“Taking advantage of Edward’s shock is a little petty.”

Sighing, he took the bag back and positioned it neatly against the wall. “It is, isn’t it? And exactly what I needed after that journey.” His glare was only half-serious. “You have no idea how much trouble we went to in getting here.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” Hawkeye offered her hand to the still-gaping Ed. “It’s good to see you again.”

They shook – left-to-left – and he felt the cool skin, the calloused fingers, the dampness from the rain . . . “This is real, isn’t it?”

Not waiting for an answer, he let go and advanced on Mustang. Before the apparition could back away, auto-mail shot out and seized his wrist. Almost afraid it would evaporate Ed gripped the hand, unconsciously tracing the white scars that crossed the back. The Flame Alchemist let him, too astonished to speak.

“Real . . .” Ed repeated, releasing his grip and walking slowly towards the staircase. “You’re really here . . .”

The soldiers exchanged glances, both wondering if the shock of seeing them was going to prove too much. Then –

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING HERE?! I TOLD YOU TO SEAL THE GATE, YOU ARROGANT BASTARD!! AND I MEANT FOR FUCKING GOOD!! DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA WHAT COULD HAPPEN IF THERE’S A WAY BETWEEN HERE AND HOME?! WEREN’T YOU PAYING ATTENTION WHEN THOSE MANIACS BLEW MOST OF CENTRAL TO BITS?!”

It took all Mustang’s self-control not to hide behind Hawkeye. The blonde demon raging and screaming at him from a few meagre feet away was somehow far much more impressive now than it’d grown a few inches and its hair was no longer in something as orderly as a braid. He opened his mouth and tried, slightly desperately, to summon up a pithy comeback.

“Brother?” Al appeared at the top of the stairs in a nightshirt that didn’t quite reach past his knees and yawned fit to break his jaw. “What’s going on? I heard –” Not unexpectedly, he stopped short.

His brother’s voice had an almost magical effect on Ed. Only-just-metaphorical fangs retracting; he turned and looked up, grinning widely. “No, it’s not a dream, Al. And if it is, I’m having it too. Can you get the towels out again? Looks like they’ll need ‘em.”

With a dazed ‘uh-huh’, the taller Elric retreated.

“Lieutenant,” Ed said, suddenly the model host, “Do you want to go into the kitchen? There’s a stove in there that should help you dry off. I’ll come and stoke it in a minute.”

“It’s Captain now,” Hawkeye answered quickly, having caught the predatory gleam with which the young man was eyeing Mustang, “And I think we should all go in. We can explain things when we’re all comfortable.” _That way, I can stop you breaking the General's neck before he can get a word in edgeways._

 

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight . . .”

The table accommodated them all, soldiers at the end nearest the stove, along with the food and drink the brothers had provided. Ed massaged his neck and continued. “This . . . not-homunculus told you that when the Gate got opened here, it got . . . what, damaged?”

“The term he used was ‘wounded’,” Mustang corrected, “If I followed the analogy right, performing alchemy here in a world where it shouldn’t work put it under an incredible amount of stress. Doing so again could make it disintegrate.”

“But it’s . . . it’s . . .” Struggling for words, Ed looked imploringly at Al. “How can something like the Gate be _wounded_? It’s . . .”

“Beyond. Beyond being affected by us,” Al completed, “Something so vast we couldn’t hurt it if we tried.”

The General shrugged. “I’m just repeating what I was told. For what it’s worth, these beings apparently can’t speak anything but the truth.”

“The Truth.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Ed waved him on. “And what exactly’s supposed to happen if it _does_ disintegrate?”

“The forces contained within it, be they sentient or otherwise, will be unleashed across both worlds, tearing down everything in their paths. Matter will be reduced to its component atoms. Life will simply be extinguished. Eventually, all that will be left will be dust.” He coughed. “That’s what they said.”

There was an appropriate silence. Then: “Oh, good, nothing big.” Ed swigged down his tea.

Hawkeye spoke up. “One of Diligence’s . . . colleagues was sent to this side of the Gate to bring you home.”

“How, if using alchemy will cause all this apocalypse stuff?”

“They didn’t say.”

“I assume,” Mustang said through a mouthful of bread, “they have some way of getting around that problem. They sent us across without too much trouble.”

This had both of the boys leaning closer. “How did they do that, anyway?”

“Did you see the Gate?”

“No.” They looked so flabbergasted that he almost smiled. “We didn’t see anything. They put us in some sort of trance and we woke up in a town called Colmar.”

This was met with identical thoughtful expressions. “I wonder . . .” Ed began, then stopped himself and changed the subject, “So how do we get home?”

This led on to an explanation concerning Kindness’ predicament, Diligence’s worries and the mystery man in bandages. “We wondered at first,” finished Mustang, “I did anyway, if it might be your father.”

“No.” The answer was quick and final. “Hohenheim's dead.” The way Ed said it did not invite dispute.

As usual, Hawkeye was the one to put before them the next sensible question. “Then who is it?”

 

* * *

 

After hours of talking over everything that had happened, they were no closer to an answer. Around one in the morning, when all discussions were becoming circular, they finally gave in to their bodies’ demands for rest. Hawkeye took one of the beds and, after much protest from both himself and Mustang, Al took the other, the remaining men making do with chairs and cushions in the kitchen.

It hit Mustang only as, in spite of the snores coming from across the room, his eye closed. Amidst all the prophetic, high-and-mighty, end-of-the-world issues, neither brother had asked for news from home.

 

* * *

 

Equally light sleepers, Hawkeye and Al rose within minutes of each other. After a brief discussion, they decided it would be best to let their respective charges sleep on and Al offered to show her around Strasbourg in aid of fresh food.

The sun shone down innocently, as if it had never been away, the only evidence of its betrayal remaining in the form of puddles and the after-rain smell that pervaded the streets.

“You both seem well, Alphonse.”

He nodded vigorously, his ponytail flapping against the back of his neck. “We are. This world has been incredibly kind to us in many ways. We’ve made some good friends and they’ve all looked after us.”

“You’ve been travelling?”

“Of course – oh! You don’t know, do you?”

He told her about Huskisson and the bomb, about the Thule Society and the chase. She listened attentively, noting how quick he was to play up Ed’s part in things, how easily he understated his own. “I remember the report on Huskisson,” she said out loud, “You’re sure he didn’t survive the trip?”

“As far as we know, only the bomb came over . . . oh, I see. You think he might be this other soul?”

“It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

“Not a very nice one. He was completely insane.”

 

* * *

 

Ed woke up to find that Mustang was still there and, for a few absurd seconds, wondered if he should be happy or annoyed. When he started thinking more sensibly, the mantra he’d adopted years ago sung out with renewed strength. _Don’t get your hopes up, it could all go wrong. Don’t get your hopes up, it could all go wrong._ At the same time, he got the urge to run around the room whooping and dancing.

There was so much he wanted to ask, to demand, to beg from the man slumped opposite. That patch, for starters. He’d seen it during his brief trip to ‘Shambala’ but small talk hadn’t been high on the agenda so he still didn’t know the details. Then he wanted to know what had happened to everyone, the soldiers, the alchemists, the friends . . .

But he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Because he’d already decided that the only way he was going to find all those things out was by asking the people themselves. Yes, it could all go wrong. That was _always_ the case. But that had never meant that he wouldn’t do everything in his power to make sure it all went right.

His spine lodged a formal protest as he got up, making him yelp, which helped Mustang join him in consciousness.

“Good grief . . .” Blearily, the older man examined him. “I never thought I’d be happy to wake up in the same room as you, Fullmetal.”

“Feeling’s mutual. You wanna get washed first?”

“Hn? Ah. Yes, thanks.”

“Shame.” Ed bolted past.

Still not quite awake, Mustang only worked out what had happened when the washroom door slammed.

 

* * *

 

Al and Hawkeye returned to hear a bellow of “You devious little creep!” and smiled at one another. “Good to know they’re getting along as well as ever,” the captain observed dryly.

“Let’s go and make peace and breakfast.” The boy frowned. “Breakfast will be the easier.”

It was.

While Mustang tapped his foot impatiently outside the washroom, Ed went through his ablutions as quickly as hysterical laughter would allow and Hawkeye supervised the scrambled eggs, Al slipped into the bedroom to retrieve his notebook and the map. He didn’t bother to control the goofy grin that he knew was plastered over his face. It was just like the old days: a mystery to solve with the Colonel – no, the _B_ _rigadier General_ – Hawkeye there to organise things, Ed kicking up a fuss . . . and when they were done, they would be among friends again. He could almost smell Gracia’s cooking, almost see Havoc and the others, almost hear Winry’s shriek as she saw the state of Ed’s arm!

Distantly, he heard the back door open. Then something clattered loudly against the kitchen floor.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the ground floor and skidded round the corner seconds ahead of Mustang.

Hawkeye was by the stove, pistol in hand, poised ready to fire. On the threshold, stock still, were a coffee skinned girl and a man with greying brown hair, cut short at the sides, left long at the top. Eyes narrowed, he stared impassively down the barrel.

“Ah.” The man’s gaze flicked to Al and his mouth curved up at the edges. “Alphonse,” he rumbled in gruff German, “It’s good to see you again. Who is this woman and why is she pointing a gun at me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- It is just possible that the bit where Ed explodes is my favourite bit in the whole fic.


	11. All The Familiar Faces

“I tell you, it was her!”

“ _I am not doubting what you thought you saw, Luke,”_ the phone purred, _“I simply find it hard to believe that she would be quite so careless.”_

The spy gritted his teeth. “Nevertheless, it was her. I saw her quite clearly, strolling along with beanpole –”

“ _Pardon?”_

“Oh, err . . .” He coughed. “The younger boy.”

“ _I see . . .”_

The pause stretched out to an uncomfortable length. Luke shuffled his feet. “Sir?”

“ _Listen carefully, Luke. I am only going to say this once. Continue monitoring the children. Keep tracking their every move. If this woman appears again, confirm her identity.”_

“And if it is –”

“If _it is, you will inform me.”_

“And then –”

“ _And then I shall decide on our course of action.”_

“O-of course.”

The line went dead. Luke replaced the handset as if afraid it might bite him.

 

* * *

 

“My apologies.” Hawkeye holstered her gun and heard Al breathe out in relief.

The man she had been aiming at, the man she had taken for Scar, did not look quite so reassured. Now she saw him clearly, her mistake was obvious. There was no actual scar for a start. Moreover, his eyes were brown and his hair was darker, the lines of his face softer. He might even have been slightly taller and was certainly a little less muscular.

Al came into the room properly, addressing not-Scar and the girl with him in their own language.

“That was an unpleasant surprise,” Mustang murmured, following the boy in and crossing to stand near Hawkeye. She nodded.

“Captain, General?” Al gestured. “This is Ivan. If I’d known he was coming, I’d have warned you about . . .”

‘Ivan’ grunted something that made the boy laugh.

Mustang’s eyebrow twitched. “Hmm?”

“About him looking like a homicidal maniac from our world,” came the translation.

“He knows that you’re . . . ?”

“Uh huh. And this is Noah.”

The girl walked hesitantly forward. “You’re . . .” Wide-eyed, she looked from one soldier to the other. “You’re . . . Hawkeye. And you’re . . . the bastard Colonel but . . . but _how_?” Abruptly realising what she’d said, she blushed profusely. “I-I’m . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s all right, Noah,” Al reassured, explaining, “Noah’s a clairvoyant, sir, and she learnt about home by reading my and brother’s minds, so . . . well, you know what he’s like . . .”

“Who’s like what?” The group turned to find Ed towelling down his hair.

“Fullmetal, I may not have told you this before,” said the former-Colonel, primly, “but my parents were quite happily married when I was born.”

The other man blinked. “Huh?”

“Excuse me?” Noah came nearer, still hesitant. She had the expression of someone in the desert spotting an oasis and praying that it wouldn’t prove to be a mirage. “How can you . . . be here . . . ?”

As he unfailingly did in the presence of pretty women, Mustang put on his most charming smile. “I’m afraid that's rather a long story . . .”

 

* * *

 

“That . . . _beast_!” The venom in Helen’s voice made Anna look at her sharply. The younger nurse nearly slammed the door behind her.

“Decorum, dear.”

“Drat decorum! That monster, he . . . he . . . urgh!”

“Who?”

“The so-called Marquis!”

“He struck me as a fairly respectable man.”

“I’m sure! You aren’t a ‘delightful young thing’! Or a ‘charming little creature’! The way he looked at me . . . horrid, lecherous . . .”

“Jameson, control yourself!” Graves swept in with galleon stateliness. “I sincerely doubt the entire country wishes to know your complaints about the security guards.”

“But –”

“Enough! Go and replace the Patient’s bandages. I’ve finished today’s tests.”

“I – ah . . . yes, doctor.”

Smothering her fury as best she could, Helen went through to the infirmary proper: a long room flooded with sunlight from a row of high arched windows. There was so much state of the art equipment arrayed along its length that she had no idea what half of it was for. The single bed stood in the middle, looking somewhat lonely.

“Hello there.”

The Patient groaned and tried to lift himself.

“No, no!” she admonished softly, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

As she had in the car, she caught his hand. The skin on the fingers was still red and raw but, when she leant closer, she saw that in parts it was beginning to regain some semblance of healthiness. “This is looking so much better!”

He made an affirmative sound and, for a moment, she thought his mouth folded into a grin.

“He has made remarkable progress since I was last able to observe him.” Startled, Helen let go. Mr Chambers sat in a chair a short distance away, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “Which was,” he continued, “admittedly some while ago. Still, given the extent of the injuries . . . He appears most comfortable in your company, Nurse Jameson.”

She lowered her eyes. “I have been caring for him for so long . . . and I knew him . . . from before . . .”

“Of course. Thomas mentioned that. It is good that you have been able to assist with his recovery.” 

“It was the least I could do.” She paused, nervously. “Mr Chambers, sir . . .”

“Yes?”

“The Marquis . . . he . . .”

“Is a soldier. Consequently, his manner is often uncouth. If he has offended you, I shall reprimand him.”

“Ah . . . yes, thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He rose. “I shall leave you to your work. Good day.” Without so much as a backwards glance, he walked away, footsteps nearly silent.

“A _soldier_?” Helen shook her head, disbelievingly. Moving to a table, she picked up the fresh bandages and in doing so, happened to glance at the floor. “What on earth . . . ?” Setting the coils of white fabric aside, she knelt and touched the faint markings she had seen. Her fingers came away coated in blue dust. “Chalk . . .?”

Acutely aware of having asked three rhetorical questions in a row, she gave a puzzled frown and stood back up. “The more I see of this place,” she told the Patient, “the more peculiar it seems.”

 

* * *

 

Noah’s stare was starting to unnerve Hawkeye a little.

The brothers had surrendered their chairs to their friends and were perched on the counter by the sink, helping Mustang describe the situation and translating where necessary for Ivan, who would occasionally grind out questions. His companion remained quiet, apparently listening intently. Yet all the while, her wide almond-shaped eyes were flicking back and forth unceasingly – almost hungrily.

Hearing the exposition reach a suitable pause, the Captain decided to speak up. “When Alphonse said you read minds, was he being serious?”

Her eyes stopped moving. “Yes . . .” Noah gave an imperceptible nod, moistening her lips. “Yes, he was.”

Hawkeye hesitated. “Psychic abilities . . . they’re _real_ here?”

“Apparently,” Ed said, folding his hands behind his head, “Not common but Noah’s the real deal. Show ‘em.” This last, said with a shrug, was directed at the girl herself.

She offered a hand. “I need to touch someone to read them,” was her response to a pair of baffled looks.

Before Mustang could move, Hawkeye’s arm shot across the table. The instant their skin touched, Noah’s eyes unfocused, losing their brightness to something new and strange.

“Do you need me to think about something?”

“No . . . no. Your memories are very precise. Ordered. Easy to touch.” After a few more seconds, she relaxed her grip. “I . . . perhaps you should ask me questions about . . .”

“Myself. I see.” Hawkeye considered. “What was my mother’s name?”

Noah concentrated. “Anelise. She was tall and very beautiful. You used to watch her move about your house and wonder how anyone could be so graceful.” She spoke reverently, clearly well aware of the sensitivity of the matter. “You remember her very clearly.”

There was a pause. “Well?” Al prompted, “Is she right?”

“Yes.” It was hard to contain her amazement. “That’s . . . amazing.”

Patting Noah on the shoulder, Ivan growled at the Elrics.

“Now we’ve established everyone’s credentials,” relayed Ed, “what exactly are we planning on doing next?”

“The logical thing,” said Mustang, “would be to investigate what we saw outside town. Find out what those buildings are, who runs them, whether they happen to have an interest in people from other worlds . . .”

Ivan spoke again, this time directly to Ed. “Hang on, matchstick. We’re forgetting something.”

He heaved a battered old trunk out from under the table and opened it to show them all what lay inside. “We still have to deal with this thing.”

Mustang peered down at the ruined sphere. “What is it?”

“One of the most dangerous weapons ever built.”

It was said so nonchalantly that a couple of seconds passed before he jerked backwards.

“Fullmetal,” he said once he had regained his composure, “What the hell have you been doing while you were out of my sight?”

“Alphonse explained it to me, Edward,” interrupted Hawkeye, smoothly, “and I think the simplest solution would be to take it home with us. You can destroy it there far more effectively than you could here.”

“Heh. Yeah. 'Course . . .” Ed's grin was sheepish. “I must have gotten used to doing things the hard way. I never thought of that.”

 

* * *

 

“Cain.”

The radio operator nearly jumped out of his chair as the Marquis appeared beside him. “Sir!”

“Have Matthew, John or Daniel reported in today?”

“Uh . . .” He shuffled the papers on the desk. “Matthew reported a couple of hours ago. He and Abraham are still in Munich and have found nothing new. Daniel contacted me an hour later from the border. Jonah located someone who might have been one of Falconer’s contacts. Un-unfortunately the man killed himself before he could be detained.”

“A pity. And John?”

“N-nothing as yet. B-but he and Moses are still on the move so they may not have been able to –”

The Marquis cut him off with a wave. “Don’t fret, Cain, I’m not about to punish you for another’s tardiness.”

He strode from the room and swept down the corridor outside, pausing only when a bulky, tanned man fell into step behind him. “Solomon.” The other gave no answer, simply followed in respectful silence. The Marquis frowned. “I simply cannot see her being so careless as to allow herself to be seen in public with the children. She knows we are watching them.”

“Perhaps she intends to warn them,” Solomon suggested, his voice a rough growl.

“That would make sense. But so brazenly?”

“Have you told Chambers?”

“Not yet. Out patron is too busy crooning over his new pet. Besides I know what his answer will be. _Wait and see_.”

“That may not be so. If she told them what we intend –”

Sighing, the Marquis rubbed at his lapel. “True enough. But I doubt such an obvious problem will trouble him.”

“Nevertheless.”

“I know. I will try to convince him that your counsel is as wise as we both know it is.” He sighed again. “Not that I hold out much hope. We signed away our right to question his wisdom.”

They turned into a side passage and he completed the thought in a murmur. “Along with our souls.”

 

* * *

 

“According to Frau Kreif at the bakery, it’s some sort of hospital,” Al reported, “but she didn’t know who runs it. Said it used to be someone's house before it got bought by an Englishman.”

“No one I spoke to had any better idea than that,” agreed Ed, “No one even knows who this Englishman was.”

Surprisingly, to Mustang at least, the two Elrics had proved equally effective at charming information out of people. He would have expected Al, with his wide-eyed gentleness, to be able to get stones to talk to him but _Fullmetal_? Threatening and cajoling, yes. Charming, no.

 _We all change_ , he thought, tracing the contours on the map.Out loud, he offered his own information. “That tallies with what the nurse on the train said. An ‘institute’, she called it.”

“There were guardhouses by the perimeter fence,” said Hawkeye, “but I don’t suppose that’s necessarily anything out of the ordinary. Then again, visibility was very poor.”

“Which means getting a second look at the place is essential.”

“Right.” Ed clapped and pressed his fists against the table. “We’ll do it this evening. The weather’s good now, which means we’ll be able to see everything clearly.”

“Won’t the ground be waterlogged?” Noah asked.

“It’ll have the rest of the day to dry out. We’ve no idea if we have the time to wait around on this, so we have to assume we don’t.”

“Careful, Fullmetal,” Mustang drawled, “You’re sounding almost professional.” More seriously, he added, “This copse, here. It overlooks the area and would act as decent cover.”

Ed glared at him but eventually agreed. Ivan, who seemed to be taking the whole thing in the manner of an indulgent uncle, inquired who was actually going to go and play spy.

Four voices answered ‘Me’ at exactly the same time. Ed, Al, Mustang and Hawkeye looked at each other.

“You’re staying here, Al,” Ed said firmly, cutting him off as he tried to protest, “That stick's too big to sneak about with and I’m not letting you come unarmed.”

“You’re going then?” The response was almost accusingly.

“Definitely.”

Mustang decided to take charge. “Fullmetal, you and I will scout out the land.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. I’d rather that Hawkeye was the one ready to pull us out of trouble. And before you say it, I am perfectly capable of handling myself without alchemy.”

“I’ll station myself here, at the base of this rise,” the sharpshooter stated, “We’ll need a signal for trouble.”

“Whistle?” Al suggested, digging in a drawer, “Here.”

“Perfect.” Mustang tucked the metal tube inside his jacket. “Let’s just hope I won’t have to use it.”

 

* * *

 

“Marquis.” Chambers did not look up.

“My men report that a woman resembling Falconer has been seen conversing with the children.”

“That has ceased to be a concern.” The spectacles glinted in the dim light. “I want you to recall your men.”

Surprised to receive such a blunt instruction, the Marquis’ eyes narrowed. “For what reason?”

“Because that is what I am telling you to do.”

Surprise turned to annoyance. “We still haven’t dealt with her –”

“I told you. That no longer matters.” Chambers’ head lifted. “Our inactivity is at an end.”

The Marquis' lips curved. “So you’ve finally decided that it’s time to collect them?”

“That is unnecessary. It is highly likely that Hohenheim’s children will present themselves to us. We simply have to await them with open arms.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- To the best of my knowledge, I am completely making up Hawkeye's mum's name  
> \- The more I edit this story, the more I realise that I went to quite ludicrous lengths to keep Al from actually fighting anyone in the main part of the story. This was unconscious, I assure you! He makes up for it in the next one.


	12. Double, Double

She was tired. Dead tired, so tired she was beyond sleep. And stopping and resting were simply not options. But she was not going to let that make her careless. She couldn’t afford to. So instead, she focused on pushing through the tangled weeds and bit her lip in the hopes the pain would keep her alert.

 

* * *

 

“Someone should invent a map that gets updated as the grass grows,” Ed grumbled. The copse was proving to be excellent cover. Rapid retreats were, however, not looking like a particularly viable option.

“Welcome to military operations,” Mustang retorted, ducking under a branch, “When the intelligence is half-right, it’s a good day.”

Afternoon was waning into evening, making the landscape look old and worn. Stuck atop a west facing vantage point, the cluster of trees received the full benefit of the twilight. Everything within was now attractively dappled. The air felt warm but despite having had a full twelve hours to attempt the feat, the ground was still not completely dry. This it shared with the unexpectedly dense undergrowth and the two men frequently cringed as water dripped down the back of their necks.

“Half-right’s good?”

“It is compared to ‘catastrophically inaccurate.” He stopped. “Ah ha. This looks good.” The vegetation had thinned, affording them a clearer downhill view. The big old house squatted in the middle of farmland, a dirty grey blotch amid green fields.

Ed produced a collapsible telescope. “Wish the damn sun were pointing the other way. This is gonna glint…”

“We’ll have to risk it.”

“Right.” He put it to his eyes. “Let’s see…”

“That’s a very bad pun, Fullmetal.”

“Shudup. I got . . . gate, guard huts . . . there’re men walking the perimeter . . . rifles. That looks like a garage . . . hmm . . . a lot of guys in white coats wandering about.”

“Doctors?”

“No, _milkmen_. How the hell should I know?”

Mustang chuckled. Ed shot him a glare. “What’re you snickering at?”

“You. Can you see any way of getting in undetected?”

“Not unless you can suddenly become invisible. There’s no cover near the fence on either side. If it were pitch-black, you might be able to do it –” The blonde winced as a particularly large drop of water plunged past his collar. “Urgh. Here. You look.”

“Why, thank you.” The older man took the spyglass. “Those other buildings look newer than the house.”

“Mmm.”

“Nothing obviously amiss. No giant arrays this time. Not that there’d be much point in it being one, I suppose . . .”

“You’d be surprised how many people’d be willing to try anyway,” Ed answered darkly and did his best to find cover that would not give him an impromptu shower.

 

* * *

 

It had taken her days to completely lose the Marquis’ dogs. They were persistent, she gave them that. Still, she doubted they would expect the utter insanity of heading back to the ‘scene of the crime’. That was, after all, what it was. But necessity often bred insanity.

By sheer chance, she had arrived in time to see the older Elric leaving his house and heading off with friends. The group’s direction aroused her suspicions at once. She just hoped she would be able to stop him presenting himself to Chambers in gift-wrapping.

 

* * *

 

The dirt track was one's idea of a beauty spot but it did have the advantage of a good view of both road and hill. Hawkeye, back against a fence post, cast an apparently idle glance at the silhouette of the copse. Ivan, sitting atop said fence, stifled a yawn.

His insisting on coming along had been surprising but welcome. While standing solitary guard was never a problem, basic common sense told Hawkeye that two people were going to stand a greater chance of extracting Flame and Fullmetal from trouble than one alone. Admittedly, she had yet to see him fight but he seemed confident enough with the long knives hanging from his belt.

She wished she could ask him about the brothers. True, for once she was fairly certain that neither of them was holding anything back for fear of worrying anyone but Hawkeye lived her life according to several very strict philosophies, including ‘when you’ve double checked, check again’ and ‘when you’ve got a second opinion, get a third’. They had spent over two years – four in Ed’s case – cut off from everything they had ever known. That alone meant concern for them was justifiable.

A goose honked overhead. In the distance, a plume of off-white smoke announced the passing of a train. Dusk was beginning to set in properly. The shadows had lengthened picturesquely. It would be a pleasant night.

Hawkeye regarded it all with the utmost suspicion and fingered one of her pistols. Ivan yawned again.

 

* * *

 

She saw him a full two minutes before he saw her. That gave her time to observe the youth she intended to save.

The way he moved indicated he was no stranger to stealth. What she could guess of his build reminded her a little of an acrobat she had once known – compact but unusually powerful. His clothes were dark and nondescript, perfect for sneaking about. And he’d made sure that his long, bright hair was tucked out of the way beneath a woollen cap.

She approved. If he was not a professional, he was most certainly a gifted amateur.

 

* * *

 

Skirting the very edge of the copse, Ed wrinkled his nose. He and Mustang had separated to see what different angles might show them and ‘not much’ was looking increasingly likely to be the outcome. Without any obvious clues such as eldritch glows or clouds of odd-coloured smoke, finding out what was going on in the complex was going to be uphill work.

“Even the guards don’t look suspicious,” he breathed, squinting down the binoculars, “Come on, give me something here!” The possibility that it might be exactly what it purported to be, an innocent private hospital, reared its head. It could be, couldn’t it? There could be nothing strange happening at all. Real life was like that.

Edward Elric’s life, however, seldom was.

Which was why when he slid backwards, stood up, turned around and stretched, he did not react with the amount of shock a normal person might have.

A woman was standing a few feet away, not making a sound. She presumably was extremely good at not making a sound because he hadn’t heard the slightest hint of her approach. Her clothes were dark, like his, blending in with the surroundings. A hood hid her hair and a scarf hung around her neck, presumably having up 'til then concealed her face, which was now disclosed, pale against the rest.

What her presence had not done, that face did. As a result, she got the first word in. “Mr Elric.” She spoke quietly but fiercely. “You must leave here _now_.”

Exactly nine seconds passed. “ _Hawkeye_?”

“Pardon?” The woman frowned, then shook her head. “My name is Elizabeth Falconer. I can’t explain everything immediately but it is imperative that we remove ourselves from here at once.”

Various ‘what?’s and ‘why?’s presented themselves. However, before any could be voiced, Mustang emerged from the foliage to Ed’s right. “So much for that . . . err . . . Fullmetal . . . ?”

Falconer couldn’t have seen more than the man’s profile, since he was looking at her from the corner of his good eye, and only that for an instant. She reacted as if he were the most horrifying thing imaginable. “Y-you?!” was about all she managed to gasp before spinning and vanishing into the trees.

“Hey, wait!” Ed bellowed, launching himself into pursuit.

“Both of you wait!” demanded Mustang, following suit.

They ran out of copse long before they were anywhere near her, the trees giving way to a gentle, grassy slope. A gentle, grassy slope on the opposite side of the hill from where Hawkeye and Ivan were waiting. A gentle, grassy slope lacking in any cover beyond a few vaguely ambitious bushes.

A gentle, grassy slope occupied by a large number of men in black coats.

Falconer had clearly been expecting them because she did not stop. As Mustang and Ed skidded to a halt, she darted around the nearest of the men, deftly evading their lunges. Two moved to block her path. Her hand lashed out, something gleaming at her fingertips. They fell back, one with a long gash in his sleeve. The other raised a pistol.

“No!” Shouting, Ed tried to jump the gunman. Someone huge stepped in the way and flung him back the way he’d come. He hit the ground and rolled over just as shots rang out.

“They missed,” Mustang said curtly as he helped him stand up, “We might not be so lucky.”

On closer scrutiny, the men turned out to be wearing the kind of jackets a Christian priest might, high collared, featureless and midnight black, although they were clearly about as clerical as Ed. The sabres and handguns made that quite obvious, as did the military boots.

“Can we help you, gentlemen?”

“I don’t think we can, Mustang.” Ed’s left hand found the catch on his auto-mail. _Sprang_. The spring blade shot out from his sleeve.

Sighing, Mustang reached into his pocket. “I really don’t think upsetting these people would be a terribly good id – urg!”

_Please let me not have just heard that. It sounded exactly like someone hitting the bastard on the back of the head before he could reach the whistle._ There was a soft thud as a body slumped and fell past Ed. His eyes slid to the side. _Oh hell._

The instinct to whip around and confront whoever was there proved unnecessary. Silent footsteps carried the perpetrator into full view. “I’d have to agree. Upsetting us would be an incredibly stupid idea.”

For the second time in about as many minutes, Ed couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Roy Mustang had just been knocked out by . . . Roy Mustang. In contravention of all logic and rationality, the man who had been his guardian tormentor, the man who’d quipped and jabbed like there was no tomorrow, the womanising, sarcastic, ambitious, ever-cunning Flame Alchemist stood in front of him, free of scaring, no eye-patch, mouth set in that oh-so familiar smirk.

It was as though the past had just come up and punched the present in the face. Literally.

_Another Hughes, another Gracia_ , reminded a singsong voice in his head. That jerked him back to thinking straight and, with his brain working properly, he was able to notice more about this other Mustang than his face. For example, he was wearing the same uniform as the gunmen, with the jacket open to display a white silk shirt, and while the rest of their hands were bare, his were covered by gloves. And his sabre was unsheathed, held loosely at his side.

“Who the hell are you?” Base belligerence. That always worked as a fall-back plan. Almost always.

The smirk did not waver. “Strangely enough, I don’t feel the least bit inclined to answer that question.” He lifted the sabre a faction of an inch. “All the same, I must insist that you accompany us back to our residence. My employer would like a word.”

Well, that made things simpler. Ed struck a defensive pose. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Pity.”

He stuck as fast as a snake. It was all Ed could do to get his own blade in the sabre’s path. The shock of the blow ran straight up into his shoulder. “Oof! Let me guess: you _haven’t_ spent most of your career sitting behind a desk.”

Other-Mustang didn’t answer, just smirked a bit wider, bounced back onto his heels and sent the sword flashing towards Ed's side. Again, he blocked it. Just.

They kept up the dance for almost a minute. The lightning thrusts became quicker and quicker, until Ed was not so much countering as retreating. Abruptly, everything was still again, the sabre pressing against the knife, auto-mail straining against muscle. Had his arm been functioning at full power and had the angle been favourable, Ed would have been able to force his way free of the deadlock. But neither was the case and it was a struggle to prevent himself from being decapitated. Other-Mustang hadn’t so much as broken a sweat

His eyes locked with Ed’s, as cold as lumps of jet. “You’re no swordsman,” he purred, “You fight like a wrestler: all power, no grace.” Then he snatched the sabre away. Thrown completely off balance, Ed stumbled. There was a whirr of black cloth. He saw the hilt rushing towards him and could do nothing about it.

Grey pain engulfed the world and the last thing he felt was his feet leaving the ground.

 

* * *

 

Falconer felt the air sing as bullets ripped through it inches from her head. She ignored them. If you started to think about how close you had just come to dying, you slowed down and then you _would_ die.

There were people pounding after her, she could hear that. She should have known she’d be too late. In all honesty, she probably had. No. She definitely had. What she had not known was how badly seeing _him_ again would affect her.

There were no more bullets now, just thumping feet and ragged breath. Damn it, she couldn’t tell how many were after her, she had no idea where to run except back to the town, where she knew for certain more of them were lurking, there was no cover, Josef wasn’t here to help her this time, she was exhausted, alone, unarmed save for her knives . . .

The ground lurched.

Ridiculously, the only thing she could think as she fell was ‘Fiddlesticks’.

Someone’s arms looped around her and she stopped.

She looked up.

Impossibly, her saviour had a mirror for a face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I've no idea if the reveal of the Marquis identity comes as a surprise at this point or, if it does, whether it works. I hope it does.  
> \- It's pretty safe to say I write Mustang as something of a glass cannon: he's not actively useless without his gloves, but he's far less adept at close quarters combat than he is at ranged attack. As a consequence, if he doesn't have his gloves or you get close enough that he can't safely use them, you can probably take him down with a good sock on the jaw. Or blow to the head, as here.


	13. A Wounded Falcon

After a day and a half of upheaval, the kitchen was remarkably peaceful. Al sat reading, his attention completely focused on the heavy book before him, the drink he had made as he resigned himself to a long wait forgotten. Noah sat watching.

She enjoyed watching the brothers reading. It was one of things she had missed most while they had been apart. When they had their noses stuck in the books, they became calm and quiet, all their worries falling away as they immersed themselves in pure knowledge. Edward would become still for once, only his eyes moving as they drank in the words and Alphonse . . .

The similarity hurt sometimes. From the right angle, the boy from another world was the image of the gentle rocket engineer who had died cradled in her arms. That would be a memory she took to her grave, of stumbling down into the factory to find Alfons sprawled by the equipment bank, staring up at the storm of energies above. There had been a smile on his face, a real, genuine smile free of the pain of illness. The blue of his eyes was glazing over as she lifted his head but he had not been quite dead He had blinked once, slowly, and whispered, more to God than to her. “Keep him safe.”

Then she had felt his life leave. She had never before been close enough to touch a dying person and the wrench was almost unbearable. And no matter how unalike they really were, she knew she would forever be seeing him in the face of his doppelgänger.

And worse than that by far, she knew Edward would do the same. He would despise himself for doing so, yet that spectre of his friend would not be something he could ever shrug off. Just like her betrayal of him.

The thought was unbidden but not unexpected and it opened a vast, black abyss. What she had done, the invasion of his mind, the theft of his secrets . . . that would never, ever be forgiven, not after two years, not after two hundred. How could it be –?

“Brother doesn’t hate you, Noah.” Pulled from her reverie, she jumped. Al laid his book down. “Sorry. But I know that look and it isn’t healthy.”

“Look?” she asked, confused.

He smiled sadly. “It’s the same one brother gets when he thinks about the people who’ve been hurt around him. And I have to tell him the same thing. _He doesn’t hate you_.”

She looked down at her feet. “How can he not? You’re kind, Alphonse, but I _deserve_ to be hated for what I did.”

“But he still doesn’t.” The boy ran a hand through his hair. “Brother . . . he . . . He _can’t_ hate like other people do. He gets angry, he curses and he rages but . . . in the end, the only person he really, truly ends up _hating_ is himself. I think . . . he hated dad, and the homunculi . . . and maybe the Colonel as well . . . but that wasn’t . . .” He searched for the right words. “When it comes down to it, brother can't help trying to carry the world on his shoulders and he refuses to acknowledge that it's impossible. He’s the genius, he’s the brilliant one, so he’s the one who’s got to solve all the problems. And if things go wrong, if people are hurt, then that’s _got to be his fault as well_.”

Al shook his head. “He’s a complete idiot, of course, but that’s the way he is. And if you asked him, he’d be the one who’d end up apologising to you, not the other way around.”

Noah stared at him, unable to respond no matter how much she wanted to.

A pounding on the back door saved them from an uncomfortable silence. Al grimaced and got up, reaching for his staff as he went. Things were afoot, which meant taking chances would be a very bad idea.

Three people tumbled into the room and mental alarm bells went off in Noah's head at full volume. _Wrong number_.

“Shut the door! Quickly!” Hawkeye ordered, sounding like she’d run all the way back.

Al obeyed and Noah shot to her feet, deathly afraid. “What happened? Where’s Ed?”

“Captured, most likely.”

Wait.

Noah checked. Captain Hawkeye was leaning against the counter, irritably checking her guns. She turned. Hawkeye was also being supported by Ivan and wearing very worn travelling clothes.

Al had realised too. “Oh . . . kay . . . This is going to be complicated, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

“My given name,” the Hawkeye-duplicate said, sipping at her tea, “is Elizabeth Anne Falconer. At this stage, I rather think any aliases have lost their point. Might I ask . . . ?” She looked pointedly at her double.

“Riza Hawkeye,” the Captain answered, “and here, that might as well _be_ an alias. I realise how strange my appearance must seem.”

Falconer started chuckling. “Believe you me, ‘Riza’: there is very little that seems strange to me any more.”

“Why were these people trying to kill you?” Al demanded, having listened, wide-eyed, as Hawkeye and Ivan described having to fight off two swordsmen intent on taking the other woman’s life, “And what do they want with brother and the Col – the Brigadier General?”

There was a pause as Falconer swung her gaze across the four of them. It was as piercing as any Hawkeye could have offered. “That, Mr Elric, is as you pointed out earlier, complicated. How sturdy are the doors in this house?”

“Um . . . quite sturdy. Why? And how did you know my name?”

“The latter is part of the answer to your first question. I ask about the doors because it is more than likely someone will be along shortly to break them down.”

She put aside her drink and laced her fingers together. “I am, bluntly, a spy, employed by the British Government to extract information about His Majesty’s enemies via any means necessary. I happen to be fairly good at my job, hence why those men decided to cut short my allotted four score and ten.”

“Who were they?”

“Another complicated question. They call themselves the Templars, but they have as much in common with that holy order as I do with the pope. Possibly less. They are mercenaries available to the highest bidder and capable of practically anything, be it espionage, sabotage, kidnap, extortion, assassination or revolution. They’re a long established institution, with a fine set of traditions. Each member takes a Biblical name as his own, save for the leader because presumably no one has ever had the gall to call themselves Jehovah. Currently, they are led by a man who goes by the name the _Marquis de L’enfer_. The Marquis of Hell.”

She shuddered, her expression one of absolute hatred. “He has, or had, four major lieutenants – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John – a chief interrogator, Adam, two spy-masters, Paul and Daniel, and a second in command, Solomon. Below them serve an assortment of very well trained criminals who would slit your throat as soon as look at you and be able to do it in a number of very inventive ways.”

“Sounds a . . . worrying organisation to have around,” Hawkeye observed dryly.

“It is. My superiors first became aware of them during the War. The Kaiser employed them to sow chaos behind the lines and, eventually, on the British mainland. Fortunately, one of my colleagues was able to entice Adam to abandon his calling and he sold them out. We cornered them in a quaint little town in Essex and dismantled their operation most effectively. _Un_ fortunately, we failed to detain the Marquis and his inner circle. Paul and Mark were killed but the rest escaped.”

“How?”

That got a wry grin. “Simple. They burnt most of the town to the ground and slipped away in the confusion. Abandoned a good chunk of their equipment and left themselves on the run but on the whole, I’d say they got the better half of the deal.”

Her audience absorbed the information. Al asked how it brought them to France and people shooting at her. The grin got wryer. “Well, now. Thus begins the interesting part of the narrative. The Templars disappeared for the rest of the War. When we next got wind of them, it was in connection to one Benedict Chambers. I doubt you move in the right circles for that name to mean anything but if you did, it would mean a very great deal. He is extremely wealthy, to the point where that has ceased to be an adequate description of his affairs. Even we aren’t quite sure where it all came from and, to be frank, I personally would rather not know. One thing we _were_ sure of was that employing a band of mercenaries was very odd behaviour for him.”

She wetted her lips before continuing. “One thing led to another and I was assigned to investigate in person. It helped that I had a basic understanding of the occult courtesy of my father. Chambers is obsessed with that sort of thing. A few months of intense study later, I presented myself to him as an expert on the unusual. He hired me virtually on the spot. With hindsight, it’s very obvious what was going on. At the time, it simply seemed as though I’d successfully taken advantage of an enemy’s weak point.” Her smile vanished. “For almost a year, I worked in London, cataloguing and analysing arcane texts. I saw enough of Chambers to learn that he was indeed dealing with the Templars. The curious thing was, he didn’t seem to be using them to _do_ anything. Except move them about so often that arresting them quickly became impossible. Then . . . then he found a dragon.”

Al sat bolt upright. “Dragon? You don’t . . . you can’t mean . . . _Envy_?”

Falconer looked surprised. “Envy? Yes . . . I remember Chambers calling it that once. You know about it?”

“From my brother. It was something from . . . err . . . How do _you_ know about him?”

The spy stared into her mug. “I can’t tell you how Chambers found it. Up until then . . . I suppose I’d been working on the assumption that the man was simply an eccentric criminal. I never believed in magic. My father did, God rest his soul, but I preferred real, solid life. What I saw that day . . . It was in Germany, a few months before the attempted putsch. Chambers shipped us out to a castle in the middle of nowhere. A few of the Templars were there, the Marquis was . . . But only Chambers, his secretary, Bell, and myself went inside. It was in one of the towers, coiled round and round on itself. It was . . . impossible. A serpent as big as a whale. Scales like dustbin lids. But far faster than a beast of that size has any right to be. Bell . . . it . . . it ate him. It would have eaten me as well, I think, but Chambers . . . while it was distracted, he . . . touched it. Just . . . _touched it_. And it stopped. Just like that. Laid down as if it were going to sleep!”

“Go easy,” Al said kindly, “You’re telling us an awful lot very quickly . . .”

“No. I may be on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion and twenty-four months’ worth of insanity but you need to hear this and quickly. Chambers held his hand there for a few minutes, in some sort of trance and after that . . . we simply walked away.

“For months, I almost convinced myself that it had been a dream, that I’d hallucinated it all. I never reported it to London. They’d have thought I was insane. I did. Chambers kept the Templars closer afterwards. I saw the Marquis almost daily. And I did my duty. I got close to him, trying to dig out information without him suspecting. It wasn’t hard and it kept my mind off what I’d witnessed. It worked. It worked very, very well. The things I . . . that he . . .” She couldn’t prevent the shudder this time and it shook her whole body. “I did my duty. I stayed close. My superiors were happy. I think they were readying themselves to close the operation and arrest everyone in sight . . .”

“But they didn’t?”

“No. Six months ago, there was an incident at a hospital Chambers often visited. It changed everything. Suddenly, he shipped his staff, Templars and all, right across Europe, splitting them up to collect objects and people and books. And there were . . . _things_ that kept happening around him. It made no sense but it . . . terrified me. He didn’t explain, not to me. The Marquis knew . . . knows . . . he made that clear! In the end . . . my own ignorance and . . . my _fear –_ ” Falconer's mouth twisted. “It became too much. I . . . ran.”

It took a deep breath to steady her enough to continue. “There was a man here in Strasbourg who helped me get away. I left with little more than the clothes I was wearing. And that night . . . Chambers . . . it was like he’d stepped out of a wall . . . He appeared as I was in the middle of slipping away. Just . . . stood there and looked at me. All at once, I knew he’d . . . knew he’d known all along why I was there. He’d known and he hadn’t cared. He said . . . he said, ‘Go or stay. It makes no difference to me now. But you cannot comprehend what you are turning your back upon.’ And he left me there. And . . . and I ran.”

Falconer fell silent, scowling at herself. With all his heart, Al wished he could offer her some comfort. But there was still more he had to know. “What about us? Where do brother and I come into it?”

“In all honesty,” came the hushed reply, “I’m not sure. Your names, your father’s name . . . they were always there. In the files and the records, in the discussions. Chambers has been watching you for a long time. You’re important to him. He wants . . . _needs_ you for something . . . I don’t know what. I never, ever knew what all that work, all the planning, all the effort was actually _for_.”

Suddenly, her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide and full of fear. “When I left, I did so with the intention of finding you. I followed you across France and back again because I knew, _I knew_ that you could not be allowed to fall into the hands of these people. Whatever they are doing, whatever Chambers is planning, it is nothing good or right. After everything I've seen, I know it cannot be. It's something terrible. Something that involves monsters and demons and magic . . . and things . . . powers . . . that can’t . . . _that shouldn’t be real_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Falconer, of course, has a cut-glass RP English accent.


	14. Two By Two

There was a commotion in the entrance hall.

Helen paused mid step, curious enough to be distracted from her errand. A crowd of men in black, almost priestly coats were busy manhandling two stretchers across the threshold. Strangely, the men were almost all wearing old-fashioned military sabres, the sort she usually associated with ceremonial army uniforms.

On the verge of moving to get a closer look, she noticed who was overseeing the manoeuvres and immediately stopped.

Her first encounter with the so-called Marquis – and if she had anything to do about it, her last – had been in an office designed so that the occupant remained in the shadows while the visitor was pinned in an uncomfortable light. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the kind of man he was, with his glinting black eyes and superior smirk. He _exuded_ arrogance.

Yet now she could see him clearly in the light, she experienced an odd twinge of déjà vu. Hadn’t she seen the face somewhere before coming here . . . ? The train journey rose up from her memory, the visit from the one-eyed soldier. _Good grief_. _They could almost be twins_. But they couldn’t be, surely? The Marquis made her flesh crawl whereas the soldier had stuck her as polite and somewhat lonely. Besides, the coincidence of such a thing bordered on the ludicrous!

A shock run up her spine as she registered that the Marquis’ narrow eyes were looking straight at her. He clicked his fingers and pointed in her direction. In response, a massive, tanned brute started striding over. She spun and hurried back to the nurse’s quarters.

 

* * *

 

Solomon grunted and glanced over his shoulder. The Marquis waved him back. “Let her go. Not quite enough curiosity to be harmful. And it would upset Dr Graves if she got herself hurt.” He regarded the stretchers and their occupants. Neither was moving beyond shallow breathing. “Speaking of doctors . . . Take them to Lazarus. Get him to dope them properly. We'll wake them when we're ready.”

“Sir!” Cain burst into the hall, clutching a radio transcript. He skidded to a stop in front of the Marquis, who arched an eyebrow.

“Is the building on fire?”

“No sir! Luke has just reported –”

“Don’t waste your breath. I think I know.” He plucked the transcript from the man’s hand. “Ah, yes. A not unexpected turn of events. Good. I knew our Mr Chambers was being too hasty when he told me to call everyone back. Is he still on the line?”

“Err, yes sir.”

“Good. Tell him to not so much as blink. Solomon, dispatch appropriate reinforcements to keep a discrete but unwavering watch on that house. They are not to be let out of our sight.”

They hurried to obey. Pausing only to consult a pocket watch, the leader of the Templars strolled after the departing Cain.

 

* * *

 

It would have been easy to think that Chambers was sleeping. He sat at his desk as usual; bolt upright but with his head bowed and his eyes closed. More than that, there was an indefinably air of absence about him, a subtle lack of life usually only found in the comatose. Yet a single, soft cough was all it took to rouse him. An interesting trick.

“You have them.” It was not a question.

“We have the older brother. And a man with an unusual face.”

“Unusual?”

“In that, aside from being short-changed one eye, it is _my_ face.”

Chambers pressed his fingertips together. “How very curious. I suggest you ask him where he acquired it.”

The Templar bared his teeth. “With the greatest of pleasure.”

“After I have examined them both. They have been anaesthetised?”

“I felt it best.” The Marquis ran a finger over a tabletop. “Falconer was there too. She escaped. With help. Lot and Isaiah are considerably worse for wear.”

At this, Chambers raised his eyes. “Really?”

“The ever-vigilant Luke informs me that Abel observed her being escorted to the boy’s house.”

“Indeed? Then you wish to storm the place.”

“The advantage of anonymity no longer exists. It makes sense to gather up all the loose ends as quickly as possible. With your permission, of course . . .”

“Of course,” echoed his employer, standing. He contemplated the issue, moving out from behind the desk as he did so. The single clock in the room ticked louder in the lull. “They are very likely to engage foolhardy attempt to retrieve their comrades. Until you can guarantee that the local authorities will not be disturbed by an attempt at kidnapping, the safest option remains letting them come here.”

“And if they alert said authorities to our operation?”

“I find that possibility unlikely.”

“The Trojans found it unlikely that the horse was hollow.”

“Nevertheless,” was Chambers’ stern reply, “while our quarry now knows us, the spectators remain ignorant. I would rather it remained that way.”

“If you insist –” The Marquis stopped and frowned. “Wait . . . Falconer has had plenty of opportunity to bring those spectators down on our heads in the last couple of months and you have been singularly unenthused about my attempts to reign her in . . .”

The other man stared at him levelly.

The Marquis smiled slowly. “You knew she'd go after the children rather than try and report us to her superiors. Because . . . hah! Because they'd never believe her. But the Elrics just might. You were using her to draw them out.”

“I am still doing so. Now.” Chambers rose from his chair. “I would like to inspect the results of your exertions.”

 

* * *

 

The room was just as well appointed as the infirmary, the rows of equipment just as shiny and up-to-the-minute. There were, however, no windows to flood the room with light. That job went instead to a set of harsh electric lamps. Twelve Templars stood on guard over two of the beds, all standing with their arms crossed and their feet apart.

Lazarus, a brown haired Austrian, prowled around them. He looked up as the Marquis and Chambers came in. “Sirs . . . welcome.”

“How are the gentlemen, doctor?” the Marquis asked.

“A little battered and bruised, but sleeping soundly. _Very_ soundly.”

“Excellent. Mr Chambers?”

The man in grey approached the beds, glasses glinting. On the nearest lay L’enfer’s twin. There were other subtle differences besides the bullet wound but the resemblance was uncanny. They even cut their hair in the same way.

“Interesting. Other correlations were likely but the extent continues to surprise me.” He pressed a hand to the scared forehead. “Hm. Your drugs are too effective.” A slight frown creased Chamber's forehead. “However . . .”

Snatching his hand away, he addressed the Marquis. “Around his neck. Please extract the object.”

L’enfer looked at him in puzzlement but did as he was told. The necklace and the four baubles came away easily. Three of them were glowing brightly.

“This?”

“Kindly destroy them.”

“Pardon?”

Something almost like real emotion entered Chambers’ voice. “At _once_ , if you will.”

The Marquis frowned then shrugged. He dropped the necklace and lifted a boot. His heel smashed the ‘eyes’ and ground the remains to powder. Chambers nodded in satisfaction, beckoning to an orderly. “Take the debris and place it in the furnace.”

“May I ask . . . ?” The question was accompanied by another of L’enfer’s exercises in eyebrow lifting.

Chambers crossed to the second bed. Edward Elric looked remarkably peaceful for someone who had recently been smashed in the face with a sword’s pommel. His right sleeve was ripped away to reveal a mechanical arm. The same treatment for his left trouser leg laid bare a similar apparatus in place of his shin and foot. “It would be unfortunate if we overlooked something that later caused us problems. These connections appear simple to operate. Remove the false limbs. A study of such elegant technology may prove advantageous.”

Nodding eagerly, Lazarus advanced. “Yes sir . . . I’ll get started immediately.”

“Do so. When you have finished, bring him to me.”

“What about my previously non-existent brother?”

“Do with him what you wish, Marquis. Within reason. Keeping him alive could be to our advantage. And I shall require him conscious or sleeping at some point.”

“I’m sure I can manage that. I’m very good at keeping people alive.” The Marquis crossed his arms, flicking a hand at those of his subordinates still nearby. They rushed to haul Elric’s companion up and carry him away.

He looked at Chambers from the corner of his eye. “I have no desire to pry but it strikes me that something has perturbed you. That necklace –”

“Those who would oppose us are powerful. Underestimating them would be dangerous.”

“You mean –”

“They cannot interfere directly so they have sent agents in their stead.”

“Pretty poor agents.”

“We have one of them. The other remains at large.”

Comprehension dawned. “Luke’s earlier sighting of Falconer. Do you think . . . I’m sorry, do you _know_ that was her counterpart from . . . over there?”

“Yes.”

“Another Falconer. Well, well, well.” He smiled a smile that had been known to make grown men run for their lives. “That will make life interesting.”

 

* * *

 

Like the man himself, Chambers' office was devoid of distinguishing features. There were tables and bookcases, all made from smooth, dark wood. Each book was leather bound and unmarked, their covers betraying no hint of their contents. The desk held only papers and pens. Not one personal artefact marred the drabness.

He did not seat himself straight away. Picking up the telephone, he dialled and waited. The line clicked. “Thomas? I would like to conduct another test. Please escort the Patient to my office.” Without awaiting an answer, he hung up.

Five minutes later, the door opened to admit Graves and Nurse Simons, the latter propelling a wheelchair. Without preamble, Chambers indicated a spot at the centre of the room.“Over there, please. Thank you.”

“Ah . . . Chambers?” Graves asked, nervously, “Forgive the question, old man, but what more tests do you need to perform? We have already . . .”

A raised hand cut him off. “You may go, Thomas.”

“Ah. Yes, of course . . . err . . . come along, Simons.”

It was not until the door had closed that Chambers looked up. He knew the way he avoided eye contact unnerved others but made no effort to change the habit. Natural enough, given that the effect was partly intentional. “Good evening.”

The Patient moaned slightly, shifting in his chair. His bandages had been rewound so that they no longer covered his mouth and eyes and he hesitantly smiled.

Chambers leafed through a slim journal. “Edward Elric arrived here today. We have a little more time in which to continue with these exercises, though. I think I would have made the time anyway. They do seem to have aided quite considerably with your recovery.” He smoothed the pages. “This will do.” Before him were a complex pattern of inked lines and symbols, all contained within a set of concentric circles. There were few people in the world who would have grasped the significance of the pattern. In another world, there were few who would not.

He opened a drawer and lifted out a set of compasses, a ruler and three sticks of blue chalk. Then he went to kneel on the floor next to the Patient and with practised, authoritative movements, he started to draw.


	15. Intermission 2: Epidemic

“Welcome to Briggs, sir!”

Jean Havoc was not usually a man given to growling. However, standing ankle deep in snow in the middle of a howling gale having gone almost a day without a cigarette, he managed it. “Was that supposed to be a _joke_ , lieutenant?”

The unfortunate officer, a pale youth in the fur-lined uniform of a Northern Border soldier, stuttered fervent apologies. “N-no, of course not, Captain Havoc, sir! It was only –”

“Alright, I don’t really care. Just take us inside already!”

From the outside, the Briggs Fortress resembled nothing so much as a dam, a vast wall spanning the gap between two towering peaks. Members of the garrison appeared minuscule in comparison, dark ants crawling over concrete cliffs. It was said that you needed two things to serve there: foot thick skin and a damn good head for heights. Havoc and his men were led up a slippery steel staircase and through a set of massive doors. Sentries came to attention, their movements smooth and quick in spite of the climate. The interior of the fortress was as stark as the exterior and only a little warmer. More heavy shutters barred the way, each being drawn back in turn as the party was recognised and passes were exchanged. It was clear that if you ever managed to get into Briggs, you would not be leaving in a hurry.

After nearly fifteen minutes, the forbidding design gave way to a slightly more comfortable atmosphere. Though still far from welcoming, the whitewashed walls and ordinary wooden doors were at least on a scale closer to that of normal buildings.

“In here, sir,” the now obsequious lieutenant gestured. Evidently, he had formed the opinion that Havoc’s fuse needed to be measured with a micrometer.

The room was, unsurprisingly, sparsely furnished. Outside two unoccupied desks, the only furniture consisted of three filing cabinets and an optimistic coat rack. The lieutenant went to knock on the door at the other end but it opened before he got halfway. He crashed into a salute. “Sir! The representatives of Investigations are here.”

“I can see that, Linques. They’re standing right behind you.” From the inner office emerged a man with pure white hair pulled back into a short, bristling style that could not really be called a ponytail. His sideburns were trimmed into sharp, upwardly angled triangles, giving him a formidable aspect, something completed by a set of tinted goggles that completely hid his eyes.

He saluted, much more professionally than Linques. “Captain Havoc. I am Major Miles. My apologies for not meeting you in person. Being the only ranking officer currently on the base has its disadvantages.”

Havoc returned the courtesy. “No apology needed, sir.” He waved at the man and woman beside him. “This is First Lieutenant Ross and Warrant Officer Bloch.”

They came to attention and Miles acknowledged them with a nod. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you directly to the infirmary. Time is at something of a premium at the moment.” He glanced at Linques. “You’re in charge here until I get back. Don’t sign anything.”

Setting a brisk pace, the major took them back out into the corridor. Havoc fell in step next to him. “D’you mind me asking how a major gets left in sole charge of a place like this, sir?”

“Because the Major-General is leading a mission down in the western pass and the weather’s effectively cut off our communications.”

“Ah. How long have you been out of contact?”

“A day and a half so far.”

“Worrying.”

A smile threatened to cross Miles’ face. “Knowing the Major-General, not really. On a not unrelated note, I was a little surprised when you arrived. We were expecting Colonel Royce.”

“Huh . . . yeah . . .” A certain amount of nervousness entered Havoc’s voice. “The colonel’s had to take urgent sick leave.”

Miles’ dark glasses gave no hint as to what he thought of this information but his next words sounded a little doubtful. “I see.”

 

* * *

 

“I’d better warn you, this isn’t a pleasant sight.”

The four of them stood around the autopsy table, its contents hidden beneath a blue sheet. Havoc looked across at an already distinctly green Bloch and snorted. “We aren’t all soft in the south, sir.”

The other man did not react to the jab. “Possibly not but since this made _my_ stomach do some fairly strange things, I thought I’d ought to make the effort.” Without further ado, he swept the sheet aside.

He was quite right. The sight was anything but pleasant.

“Holy _shit_.”

Ignoring Havoc’s singularly unprofessional response, Miles said flatly, “Allow me to present the mortal remains – such as they are – of Major Marcus Ospree, late of the State Alchemy Programme.”

Bloch clamped a hand over his mouth. Havoc had to fight just as hard to keep his lunch where it was as he moved to get a better look. The worst part was that the mess before them had so obviously been a human being. You could see the ruin of the man even without most of the limbs . . . or half the skull . . . or the very clearly missing internal organs . . .

Displaying courage that deserved a medal, Ross leant to examine the bits of corpse. “Sir, these . . . don’t look like any wounds I’ve ever come across. They’re almost like bite marks, but . . . so regular . . . urgh!” She stepped away hastily. “I’m sorry sir, that was –”

“You really don’t have to be,” Havoc answered queasily, “Thanks sir, I think we’ve seen enough.”

“You certainly look like you have.” Miles drew the sheet back into place.

“What exactly happened? The report you sent to Central Command said your alchemist had been killed by a backlash but it didn’t exactly go into details.”

“To be honest, we weren’t entirely sure what else to say. Three days ago, he set about a transmutation on the battlements. When he activated the array, there was the usual electrical glow, the reaction took hold and then he started screaming. By the time we were able to reach him . . . as you’ve seen, there wasn’t much left.”

“What was he trying to do? Was it . . . weapons alchemy? Chimera creation? Anything like that?”

Miles smiled grimly. “He was clearing the snow from the gun-nests. Just as he did every day since he arrived. He was the Melt-Water Alchemist. That’s why he got assigned here.”

“Did the reaction change colour?” Ross asked.

“It may have done but the volume of steam produced made it impossible to tell.”

“Right . . .” Havoc rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll have to examine the scene of the crime and take witness statements. Oh, and we’ll need photographs of the, uh, body.” He turned to the still-gulping Warrant Officer. “Bloch, set the equipment up in here. Ross and I’ll get started on the witnesses. Can you round them up for us, sir?”

Nodding, Miles strode to the partition and hailed a couple of privates. “Morgan, help Warrant Officer Bloch get his camera in here. Aberthy, Lieutenant Linques is in my office. Tell him I want everyone on the list on my desk assembled in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Jump to it.”

 

* * *

 

Four hours later, Havoc laid his pen aside, rested his head in his hands and groaned. “Is it me or does this make absolutely no sense whatsoever?”

Ross looked over his shoulder at the reams of notes. “In what way, sir?”

“Right, I’m the first to admit that I have zero experience of alchemic backlashes but this does not fit with any of the accounts I’ve ever read. The reaction didn’t collapse, it carried on. Ospree cleared the snow, just like he meant to. He just came out the other end looking like he’d been three rounds in a meat grinder.”

“Not a normal backlash then,” Ross mused, “Something else.” She paused. “Are we working on the assumption that this is connected to what’s been happening in the south?”

“And what would that be, exactly?” The two of them jumped guiltily. Miles stood in the doorway, fixing them with a steely stare.

Havoc glared back. “You could have knocked.”

“I could have,” he agreed, calmly, “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Technically we don’t have to. As part of the Investigation Division, we have an absolute right to keep information confidential.”

The major quietly closed the door. He advanced into the room, hands clasped behind his back. “All true. There is absolutely nothing I can do to force you to explain yourself. But we are a very close-knit garrison. We have to be. The law here is that of survival and those who live up to that earn my and my comrade’s respect. Ospree was well liked. And to have his death investigated by someone who is not a trained alchemist and who is more experienced with a sniper’s rifle than a detective’s magnifying glass could strike some as being a little insulting to his memory.”

Havoc mouthed for a moment, as though trying to work something out. “Was that a threat or emotional blackmail?” No answer came. He sighed. “Alright, alright. On the grounds that I really don’t want to be kicked out in the middle of a blizzard and that everyone’s going to know pretty soon, I’ll explain. You’ve got us because we’re the only ones available.”

“Really? The last time I checked, the Military had a fairly considerable number of alchemists at its disposal. Has there been a sudden outbreak of honourable discharges?”

“No. There’s been a sudden outbreak of State Alchemists being too ill to do anything much above breathing.”

Miles digested this. “Illness? How many have been affected?”

“Pretty much all of them. Colonel Royce is in a coma, so are Colonel Folland and Major Bresslau. They’re the worst cases. The rest . . . pffft. Most are too weak to move. And it’s not just State Alchemists, either. There’ve been reports from right across the country of alchemists collapsing during transmutations. And I’m not talking big stuff here, I’m talking everyday fixing broken pots, things like that. As a result, the whole of Investigations is being rushed off its collective feet, never mind the Alchemic Oversight division. They’re having to drag in anyone who’s had any experience with alchemy but who isn’t actually one themselves. I got assigned just because of all the years I’ve spent with the Flame Alchemist! It’s got that freakin’ bad!”

“Why haven’t we received word of this before now?”

“Oh, simple. It only started two weeks ago!”

“Two weeks . . . ? And you believe Ospree’s death is connected to this?”

“It’s a possibility. Several of the men we talked to said he’d been looking a bit sick recently. But . . . a mysterious disease is one thing. Being ripped to shreds . . . that’s another.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “It’s a very rapidly spreading plague if it’s decimated our forces in the space of fourteen days,” Miles commented.

“Rapidly spreading, undetectable, only affects alchemists, no symptoms other than complete physical exhaustion . . . it’s an all-round mystery. The doctors are baffled. People are beginning to say there might actually be a problem with alchemy itself, if that’s possible. Hell, for all anyone knows, it _can_ kill people and make it look like they were half eaten!”

“Problematic.”

“Hah! _That_ has to be the understatement of the century!”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” put in Ross, “but the situation . . .”

“I understand. Naturally you have the full support and cooperation of the Briggs detachment in your investigations.”

“I thought we had that anyway,” Havoc muttered.

“Then consider it reaffirmed. Here.” Reaching under his coat, Miles took out a steel key. “This will get you into Ospree’s workshop. There may be something in there that will help you.” He handed it over then walked back to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“By the way. Am I to assume that Brigadier General Mustang is also incapacitated?”

The other two officers exchanged glances. “We’re not sure,” said Havoc, eventually, “He went on a mission just before all this started and we haven’t heard from him since.”

Miles nodded once and walked away.

 

* * *

 

Humility, like all her kind, was incapable of direct deceit. But by her very nature, she blended into the background, her efforts going unnoticed in human eyes. That was why, although she had been at his side throughout the entire exchange, no one, not even Miles himself, saw her there.

She left him at the first intersection, finding her way deeper and deeper into the monumental fortress. The soldiers she passed went by oblivious to the white robed figure in their midst.

Diligence emerged from the shadows of the corridor, the towering figure of Abstinence at his side.

“They mourn their comrade.” Humility's voice was a sweet, soft whisper. “They seek understanding of his death. But they will not find it. This is beyond them. They cannot comprehend what is happening.”

Diligence cast his eyes downwards. “That futility will not prevent them trying.”

“There will be more to mourn,” Abstinence intoned, “We cannot protect them all.” She lifted an arm free of her cloak, displaying the black flesh. And where it had been ripped away.

“There are not enough of us. There were never going to be. We can save a few, prevent the Hunger from claiming more than their strength. But the incursion is both extensive and worsening. In time, we will fail. And if so, more than we shall fall. The Hunger will be loosened. And then, all that is real and true will die.”

“We must prevent this,” Humility breathed.

“We cannot,” Diligence said, almost bitterly, “For now we cannot reach the source of the malaise. We can do nothing but wait for those we have sent to move back into our awareness.”

“Perhaps we should send others to aid them.”

“We do not have the strength to transfer _and_ return them safely,” answered Abstinence, “We would only be compounding the problem. Nor can we now simply kill the misplaced beings. The impact of alien souls passing in the wrong world would be disastrous.”

The three beings fell silent. Then Diligence turned. “We may only continue as we have before.”

Abstinence withdrew her arm. “Await our opportunity. Protect where we can.”

Humility’s head bowed. “And trust we have predicted the progression of events accurately.”

In a blaze of golden light, they sank into the stonework, leaving only an empty passage.

 


	16. Awakenings

Falconer was surprised to wake up in a strange room. Not by the room, but by the fact that she had woken at all. She sat up, realising as she did that she was wearing nothing but a nightshirt and that there was someone sitting nearby.

Alphonse Elric smiled and set his book aside. “Good morning. Are you feeling any better?”

“I . . . yes, I believe I . . .” The rest of her sentence dissolved into coughing. Concern flashing across his face, Alphnse rushed forward with a glass of water.

“Here, drink this.” He pressed it into her hands and she gulped greedily at the liquid. Slowly, she managed to bring the fit under control. “Better?” the boy asked.

“Yes . . . yes, thank you. Hah. I really have been making a complete fool of myself, haven’t I?”

“Why do you say that?” His tone held genuine astonishment.

“I have hardly been behaving in a very professional manner . . .”

“Did your training cover encountering real live dragons?”

“Hardly!”

“Well, then. Don’t blame yourself for being human. That’s one of the worst things someone can do to themselves.”

She leant back against the pillows, picking at the threadbare cuffs of the shirt. “Maybe. By the way . . . I don’t recall getting undressed.”

A faint redness crept across his cheeks, but his answer was perfectly innocent. “Noah and Hawkeye did that. The shirt’s mine because we didn’t have much else I’m afraid. They would have been here with you but Noah had to sleep and it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea for you to see the Captain when you woke up . . .” He trailed off, fiddling with the buttons on the shirt he was actually wearing.

Falconer managed a weak grin. “I agree. Thank you for watching over me.” Some sensible part of her brain chose that moment to make its presence felt and the present situation settled into the front of her thoughts. “Has anything happened?”

“No, it’s been quiet.”

“Have you discussed . . . ?”

“We’re not leaving,” he told her, solemnly, “We can’t run away and abandon them.”

She appraised him with slightly lidded eyes, taking in every determined line on his face. “Of course not,” was her eventual response, “Of course not.” Her eyes closed fully for a few seconds and she took a deep breath. “I’ll help as best I can. They’ll still be alive, that I can promise. Chambers needs your brother and any leverage he can use against him. And that, I’m afraid, includes you. Which means the Templars are going to come here, sooner or later. So, Alphonse Elric . . . I hope you’re prepared to fight for your life.”

 

* * *

 

Pain brought Mustang back to consciousness, a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulders, almost exactly as if his arms were being pulled from their sockets. His hands were on fire too and the two sensations met up in the middle to kick the hell out of his elbows. As the senses further down his body reported in, he came to the conclusion that the agony was probably connected to the lack of anything solid beneath his feet. And by the feel of it, someone had stolen all the clothes above his waist.

There seemed very few ways in which these could possibly be good things.

“Urrr . . .” An involuntary groan forced itself between his parched lips as he tried to force his unpleasantly heavy and gritty eyelid to open up. When vision was finally established, his assessment of the situation proved to be unfortunately accurate. He was hanging, chained up by his wrists at the centre of a bare, square room. Light, not precisely plentiful, came from a pair of electric lamps and there was a single trestle table set up off to his left. Nothing within kicking distance even if he had felt healthy enough to attempt lashing out.

Damn it all. He had only felt a distant impact when he’d been stunned and now he might as well have just come out from under a car. Dizzy, woozy, whatever you liked to call it, he could hardly think straight. How long had he been out of it? No way to tell. He was sure someone had stabbed a needle into his arm at some point. His mouth tasted vile.

A door opened somewhere out of his line of sight and two sets of footsteps came in. One halted, the other kept coming.

“I trust you slept well?” Ice shot up Mustang’s spine. The man with his face was in his shirt sleeves, sabre sheathed at his side, spotless white gloves on his hands. He was smiling.

“Ah . . .” Mustang croaked, “So are you supposed to be my evil twin?”

The man's smile grew wider. “More to the point, are you supposed to be _mine_?”

“I don’t know . . . I’m the one who’s been hit on the head, drugged up to my eyeball and chained to the ceiling. Does that make me seem good or just unlucky?”

“I’m not sure. Both, perhaps.”

He started to prowl back and forth, amusement still fixed on his lips. “So tell me. Who are you?”

“The hard ones first, huh?”

“Flippancy. How very impressive. What is your name?”

“King Bradley.”

“‘King Bradley’,” he repeated, rolling the words over on his tongue, “I always wondered what being true royalty would feel like, but somehow I doubt you will be able to tell me. That name strikes me as being about as justifiable as ‘the Marquis de L’enfer’. However, since I choose to keep using the one, I’ll let you use the other.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Not at all. Where are you from?”

“Colmar.”

“Really? Je suis désolé de vous déranger, mais aimeriez vous acheter de moi quelque cheveux voles? J'etais un canard, mais, les canards sont tres, tres stupid, ainsi j'ai change.”

Mustang’s face went blank. The Marquis shook his head sadly, as if disappointed. “You are not from Colmar.” Snapped fingers summoned a large man carrying an oblong tray. This he placed on the table. “This,” L’enfer gestured, “is Solomon. I consider him my most trusted soldier. He’s very good at following orders, giving good advice and snapping necks with his bare hands.” He went to peruse the tray’s contents, settling after a while on a small red penknife. Turning it in his hands, he came back towards Mustang. “I myself prefer more elegant means of combat. I prefer elegance in general.”

Mustang eyed the penknife warily. “And that extends to torture?”

The comment elicited another smirk. “I don’t have to torture you for basic information. I already know where you come from. I know why you were sent here and that you did not come alone. I even know exactly what your companion looks like. In every last detail. I look forward to meeting her.”

This provoked no reaction. None, at least, that could be seen without looking straight into Mustang’s eye.

With a sharp click, L'enfer opened the knife. He held the blade up to the light. “But for all that, ignorance remains. And that is unacceptable. Therefore, your highness, I’m very much afraid I shall have to delve a little deeper than a few glib retorts.”

Mustang said nothing. He continued to do so as the knife slid along his collarbone.

The cut was not deep. Neither were the next few. “That tickles.” Mustang’s lip curled contemptuously. “Oh. Please. Stop.”

“Hm. The delicate strains of defensive sarcasm. But this isn’t meant to cause you any great pain. From the look of you, you’re quite used to things that leave interesting scars so I hardly expect you to crack at a few more slices.” The Marquis twirled the knife. “No . . . this was purely to satisfy myself as to what colour you bleed.”

“If you thought it would be anything other than red, you really _are_ ignorant. And by the way: you should know that this sadism’s helping the evil twin argument along nicely.”

“Sadism? I don’t enjoy causing pain.” He put the penknife back on the table. “The greatest thing a man can do is achieve victory over another. Nothing else can compare with that. Pain is, when it comes down to it, only a means to that end.”

Turning, he put his hands together. “And don’t protest some child’s morality, please. Put yourself in my position. Here is some alien personage who has taken your face – taken it and not been very careful with it. Wouldn’t you _burn_ to know everything about them?”

“Yes, probably. But I wouldn’t resort to drawing on his chest with a scalpel to get him to talk about himself.”

“Ah.” L’enfer reached behind him, plucking a brown glass bottle from the tray. Slowly, he began removing the stopper. “In which case, we clearly have differing opinions about the circumstances under which someone will speak with absolute honesty.” The stopper came out with a faint pop. “And . . . possibly . . .” He shrugged then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. “Maybe I do enjoy other people’s pain. Just a little.”

With that, he started pouring vinegar over Mustang’s cuts.

 

* * *

 

_This chair’s comfortable._

That was the entirety of Edward’s thought processes as his brain heaved itself out of its drugged daze. And were it not for the faint wave of nausea that washed over him, he would probably have gone straight back to sleep. Instead, he reminded his head that, yes, it could lift to an angle other than ninety degrees forward, before exerting himself in an effort to remember how you saw things.

In the act of reaching up to rub his eyes, he finally noticed that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He went from slumped to half-standing in less than a second. He sat back down almost as fast and without any choice in the matter.

His auto-mail was gone. Not shattered or immobilised but completely absent, leaving him with nothing but the hollow sensation that always came when it was removed. Which meant he was virtually defenceless, his balance was shot to pieces and he wasn’t going anywhere at any speed.

He opened his mouth to vent his frustration.

“Good afternoon, Mr Elric.” Like his voice, the man who emerged from the shadows lacked any distinguishing features. The deficiency was strangely unnerving. He bent his head, glasses flashing. “My name is Benedict Chambers.”

“That’s not my fault,” Ed growled back, “What the hell have you done with my arm and leg?”

“Removed them,” Chambers answered calmly.

“Yeah, I noticed! Where the hell are they?!”

“Perfectly safe. It seemed the simplest way of rendering you incapable of any rash action.”

“ _Did it_?” Teeth gritted, Ed glared his most deadly glare.

It had no effect. Chambers adjusted his glasses and clasped his hands behind his back. “It did. And, given the alternatives, this at least affords you a measure of dignity.”

“ _Dignity_!? You call this –”

“Compared to being in chains, this is dignified. Believe me, my colleagues are considerably less accommodating, as your companion will most likely be discovering.”

“Compan – what have you done to him?”

“I? Nothing. Don’t worry. He’s still alive.”

“‘ _For now_ ’? Is that what you’re about to say?”

“No.”

The grey man drew a wing-chair from behind him. Sitting down brought him to Ed's eye level. “To be frank, Mr Elric, I find threats tiresome and do not therefore make them unless absolutely necessary. I deal in knowledge, nothing more, nothing less. Anything else is of secondary concern. That I’m sure is a familiar attitude.”

“Who told you my name?” Ed hissed.

“There. You seek to understand. Good. Your father told me. He thought very highly of you.”

“How did you – wait . . . you’re with Thule, aren’t you? Damnit! You bastards are finished, can’t you accept th –”

“I am not and never have been a member of the Thule Society.”

“You . . . aren’t?”

Chambers steepled his fingers. “They were a group of foolish fanatics who embraced mysticism over science and thereby paved the way to their own destruction. While they assisted my goals on occasion, their demise was a considerable relief. I thank you for that.”

“But if you’re not . . . What goals?” Ed gritted his teeth. “Oh, wait. You want to pick up where they left off, is that it?”

Still not displaying a single flicker of emotion, Chambers gave the tiniest shake of his head. “That is not it at all.”

“Then _what_?”

“I have no desire to invade or destroy your world, Edward Hohenheim Elric. What I wish is to change my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay (to anyone adhering to the update schedule!) - been travelling today.
> 
> \- I should probably apologise for making the Marquis such an out-and-out bounder but the idea that the alternate Mustang is a card-carrying villain amuses me too much.  
> \- It also amuses me to think that Ed's middle name is his father's, and that this is a fact he has tried to bury for years.


	17. Theories Of Everything

“Allow me to try and explain this in terms you will understand,” Chambers said, the first trace of something beyond flat boredom entering his voice.

“Like I have a choice.” Ed wished he could cross his arms. He settled for rolling his eyes and looking petulantly at the ceiling.

“There exist two worlds,” his captor began, folding his hands together, “standing as two sides of a figure of eight. This world, in which physics and chemistry find their highest expression in the engineer's painstaking artifice and the theorist's wild dreams. And the other, in which the perfection of matter is more than a flight of fancy and alchemists hold the secret of direct transmutation. A distinction of kind in how knowledge may be applied and on the upper limits of what science may achieve.

“The source of this divergence is relatively unimportant but may, I believe, be traced to a single experiment performed long ago by someone recorded history has forgotten. One person, setting out to change the form of the matter before them. Perhaps they drew up circles and symbols. Perhaps they relied on knowledge of the substance held in the forefront of their mind. And perhaps they touched their work and tried to make the laws of nature bend.

“In this world, nothing happened. The experiment failed. But in the other, it succeeded. Alchemy was a success and in that moment, the cosmos was transfigured. All of history changed so that the what is fantasy here could become fact somewhere else. A science was born in which its practitioners could take mass and restructure it as they saw fit, given the right equations and enough energy.

“This second requirement is interesting. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, merely transferred. However, the ease with which an alchemist can effect a transmutation is predominantly due to there being no requirement for energy input at the point of reaction. Therefore, the energy required for the transmutation must flow from some external source, beyond the matter transformed. Given the branched nature of the two worlds, that source is perhaps obvious.

He paused long enough to allow what he had said to fully sink in. The faintest hint of surprise and interest broke through Ed’s glowering, but Chambers went on before he could speak. “The potential energy locked up within an entire universe is immense, far more than would be needed to transmute the constituent matter of a single planet. The alchemic world exists parasitically upon its alternate: specifically, upon the outpouring of the chemical – or _al_ chemical – reactions that constitute life. The transformed energy, the collected information, released at the point of death is drawn into the confluence point between the worlds and passes through a conduit into which alchemists can tap at will. In essence, my world is a battery for yours.”

“Battery?” Ed snorted, “Energy? You’re talking about people’s souls!”

“The connotations attached to such a term are a distraction and, on the whole, non-scientific.”

“And this stuff _is_?!”

“Comparatively. If I may continue . . . ?”

“Oh, please! It’s not like I’ve ever been able to make mad men shut up . . .”

“One must note the implications of this. If the worlds were fundamentally similar prior to the divergence, then the same essential mechanisms should be present in both. Regardless of how it is ultimately distributed, the sum total of all life flows in to the intersection. All energy and all information, compressed to the point at which memories and knowledge become intertwined and indistinguishable from absolute reality. That point, beyond the constraints of space or time, is not simply the middle of a bridge between worlds – it is the truth. The full and complete Truth. It is to that the alchemist appeals.

“In seeking out energy leaving this world, energy that is agreeably . . . let us say, polarised, they do far more than simply redirect power. They subconsciously tap into a wellspring of knowledge that, if the alchemist is suitable receptive or open, allows them to perform what lesser men would term miracles.”

A sick sensation spread up Ed's throat. In his mind, he saw a tunnel of light and hungry shadows, filled with so many times and places it hurt. And so many teeth. “Trust me. It's not as fun as it sounds.”

“Ah, yes.” Chambers nodded, as if he understood perfectly. “The impurities. Suffice to say that no natural system can be perfect when actualised. The aperture – forgive me, the _Gate_ – is the point of collapse not just of information but of the physical laws on either side. In such a space, one would not necessarily expect life to exist and yet equally, one can not discount the possibility. Let us say that the beings that live there are of neither world. Creatures of limbo, unborn and undying, subsisting yet not quite existing.

“Were it possible for something like that to have desires, to hunger, then those creatures do so for what they do not have. They strive to reach back along the flow of life, to feed upon it, to absorb it, even to escape into it. Quite unintentionally, if they can be said to have intentions at all, they are the limit on alchemy. Should an alchemist try to draw too much power and open their link to the reservoir too wide or for too long, then these creatures can and will seize their chance and take whatever they can, be it flesh, bone or, if you insist, soul.”

Ed’s hand went unconsciously to the empty auto-mail socket embedded in his right shoulder. “I get the picture.”

“Not entirely. And you must forgive my imprecision. This is complex and I do not have the vocabulary to express it fully.” Chambers adjusted his glasses. “The limbo things do not consume in the sense of breaking down matter for sustenance. They preserve it, a little piece of what they might or could have been. Sometimes, there will be enough energy in play that the matter in question will have too great a momentum for them to hold on to it. It may in fact be propelled clean through the Gate. In other cases, the charge will be transferred instead to one of never-weres and it will be excited from its natural home, giving it the opportunity to escape out into a suitable vessel.”

“And become a homunculus.”

“Correct.” He put his hands on the armrests of his chair. “There. The constituent parts of reality. Two worlds. A common Truth that bridges both. And the creatures that exist at the confluence. All interconnected. All part of the greater whole.”

“If you’re expecting a round of applause,” Ed grated, “I’m gonna have to disappoint you. That was a very nice speech, though. You should write it down and get it published. I bet it’d get a lot of laughs from a lot of people.” No response. Ed scowled. Did nothing get a rise out of the guy? “Like I said, very nice. So . . . how the hell do you know all this stuff? You get my old man drunk or something?”

“You father was one of my sources, but his knowledge on these matters was inadequate. As indeed was your brother’s. However –”

“BROTHER?! What the _hell_?! Al?! When did –”

“Your half-brother.”

“Half –” The hammer of realisation slammed into Ed’s brain. “ _ENVY_?! You . . . How . . . You –”

“How I know these things is of secondary importance. You should concern yourself instead with what I intend to use my knowledge for.”

Grim foreboding knotting his guts, Ed knuckled his brow and clamped down on the urge to scream. “And what would _that_ be . . . ?”

Lifting long fingers, Chambers plucked his glasses from his nose, removing the screen between him and the world. “As things stand, people of the other world, of your world, can tap into the life flowing from this one. Yet the equivalent power from that side of the Gate remains unused. The people of this world are unable to perform alchemy of our own. My question is this: why should that be so?

The question did not seem to be rhetorical. “Why?” Ed spluttered, “Because it is! That’s the way things are! You said it yourself! Here, alchemy failed! It just did!”

“But you accept that the energy is there, waiting to be used?”

“Well, I guess so, but –”

“The energy _is_ there. It _is_ waiting. And, Mr Elric, with your help, I intend to bring about changes that will allow it to be used.” He leant his head to the side then said simply, “I intend to give my world alchemy.”

 

* * *

 

Anna Simons had been a nurse for more years than she cared to recall. In that time, she had developed the sort of personality that is unfazed by practically everything life could throw at it. She prided herself on it in fact. Come fire or high water, she was determined that she would never be the one faffing about and panicking.

Part of that meant keeping her opinions on her superiors firmly to herself. Many people were a trial and, as with everything else, the only sensible response was to put up with it and carry on with your job. Openly criticising a doctor was completely against her principles not just on grounds of manners but on the basis of it being an abject waste of time.

Nevertheless, it was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress a certain disapproval of those she was forced to work with. On general principle, Graves had always annoyed her, being as he was a pompous, overbearing twit. His faults, however, paled in comparison to those of the other ‘doctors’ the peculiar Mr Chambers had in his employ. Most were foreigners, which counted against them for a start, and all were . . . odd. Especially the Austrian who called himself Lazarus. Whenever he moved, he seemed to be sneaking and acting suspiciously. Anna did not approve of people like that.

And while she was not about to give in to Helen’s habit of over-dramatic outbursts, her patience with the whole affair was starting to wear thin.

“At least it seems to have done you some good,” she muttered to the Patient as she adjusted his blankets, “That was the point of coming here, I suppose.” He didn’t answer but she hadn’t expected him to. The poor fellow’s mind was clearly long gone, despite Helen’s hopes to the contrary.

The nurse straightened, affectionately ruffling the fuzz that covered the invalid’s head. His hair was starting to grow properly, for the first time in . . . goodness. It must have been nearly nine years now. How time had flown –

“Anna?” Helen bustled in, smoothing her skirts in the way that the older woman had learnt meant she was incredibly nervous about something.

“Helen, dear. What is it?”

“I . . . Did he cry out just now?”

Anna frowned and shook her head. “No. He’s been quiet all the while I’ve been in here.”

“Oh. I thought . . . I was walking outside and I thought I heard someone . . . scream.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Are you sure it wasn’t just one of the soldiers having a joke?”

“I . . . suppose it might have been . . .”

She came over and squeezed the Patient’s hand, as she always did.

“Where have you been?” Anna inquired.

“Dr Graves needed me to help him and a Professor Pierce with an experiment. They needed blood samples for something.”

“I see. In which case, I’d better get you a cup of tea.”

Nodding a distracted ‘thank you’, Helen sat on the end of the bed. Just as Anna was about to leave, she spoke again.

“Um . . . Anna . . . the Marquis . . .”

“What about him? Don't tell me he's been making improper advances again?”

“No, no!” she answered hurriedly, flushing with anger at the reminder, “Nothing like that. It’s just . . . o-oh, never mind. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

She certainly did not sound it. But her answer was firmly positive. “Yes. Sorry.”

Anna sighed. “Very well. I’ll get the tea on.” Walking away, she could not help but wonder if she should be concerned about her fellow nurse. Hearing voices was seldom a good sign.

 

* * *

 

Ed threw back his head and laughed. He laughed long and hard, the harsh, slightly hysterical sound rebounding off the walls. Chambers remained silent, replacing his glasses as the laughter wound down to a coughing chuckle.

Peering out through his fringe, Ed swallowed and got a hold on himself. “You,” he said, “You are _insane_. Absolutely, one hundred percent mad.” He warmed to his theme, gesturing wildly to underline his points. “In- _frickin_ -sane. You actually _believe_ you can flick some cosmic switch and make alchemy work here? No. That . . . that’s _beyond_ insane. It’s so crazy there isn’t a word for it! And, even better, you want _me_ to _help you_!” His fist clenched. “Let me make this clear for you in big, simple words: No. Fucking. Way. I wouldn’t help you even if I could. Which, by the way, I can’t! So take your crap and go to hell. Or better yet, give me back my arm and leg so I can SEND YOU THERE MYSELF!”

With infinite dignity, Chambers rose to his feet and spoke, very quietly. “I am not insane, Mr Elric. Neither is the idea of rearranging the way things are. It will be far from simple but it is most definitely possible. I have a most reliable source of information on the matter. What I have told you, I have done so out of politeness, so that you may think about how advantageous it would be for alchemy to be possible here.”

He began to walk towards Ed, taking precise steps. “Still, I cannot say I seriously entertain the notion that you might help of your own free will. But that does not represent any great difficulty. And even if it did, there remain other options. Your brother Alphonse, for instance –”

He had come within two feet of Ed’s chair. Without warning, the youth surged up and forwards, still-clenched fist swinging. “YOU TOUCH HIM AND I’LL KILL Y –”

Chambers’ hand was suddenly in exactly the right place to block the punch.

The instant their skin touched, Ed froze. A sensation like icy cobwebs swept over him, concentrated inside his skull. It was utterly alien and utterly terrifying, far more so than anything had any right to be.

Chambers broke the contact, flexing his fingers slightly, and the cobwebs vanished. Choking back bile, Ed slammed back into the chair.

“W-what the hell . . .” he whispered, “What the hell was that?”

“That, Mr Elric, was me learning everything about you. Thank you. Now I know how you think, convincing you to assist me will no longer be a problem.” Without another word, Chambers walked away, leaving him pale and staring.

“Wait! WAIT! What do you . . . what . . . oh. Oh no.”

He groaned as his memory tossed out a day, two years ago, when a dark-haired girl had laid her hand tentatively on his shoulder. What had he told Hawkeye? Psychic abilities weren’t common but they existed. _Oh, fucking_ hell _!_

“You’re like Noah? Is that it? Wait! Come back here, you bastard!” The bastard didn’t obey. A door opened and closed.

Ed slumped and wrapped his arm around himself, fingers digging into his grubby red vest, mind churning. There was, he decided after a while, probably a good side to being crippled and held prisoner by a telepathic maniac intent on rewiring the universe.

It was just damn good at hiding.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I spent a fair amount of time rewriting Chambers' speech, seeing if I could make it a bit more intelligible. No idea if I've succeeded. What I hope I have done is write it in a way that it sounds like someone who's more at home with physics than with alchemy.  
> \- Anna is generally unimpressed by everything. Every story needs someone like that.


	18. Taking Chances And Making Bets

Presenting oneself as a target was one of the duties of a soldier. To stand knowingly in the path of danger and not blink when it came for you. It was a duty that bred paranoia and a hyperawareness of one's surroundings bordering on the neurotic. Either you coped with that or you were in the wrong job.

Coping with it, however, did not mean you had to enjoy it.

The weight of Hawkeye's gun against the small of her back reminded her constantly of how long it would take to draw if the need arose. Not that she could imagine a firefight in the market place ending well. Too many civilians, too little solid cover. She really would have given a great deal for a decent sniper rifle and a good vantage point.

“Seen them?” Al asked, question barely audible as he handed her a bag of apples.

“Two. Possibly three.”

He nodded imperceptibly and put the fruit in his rucksack. “You remember the bakery down the next street?” he said, at normal volume, “We should buy some bread before we go back.”

They strolled onwards and Hawkeye let her eyes wander lazily. And there they were again, the faces that she was glimpsing just a little bit too often for coincidence. The ones very studiously _not_ looking in their direction. Carefully, she memorised their features.

What they would do now they had identified their enemy was still open for debate. She knew what one part of her wanted to do, but taking her gun and grinding it into the side of one of the tails’ heads until they told her everything was no more an option than the sniper rifle. The image remained, though, going hand in hand with an irrational anger at herself for not having been able to prevent the General's capture.

Squashing both firmly down, she started to run through their options.

 

* * *

 

“Am I going to be allowed my knives?”

Noah turned to find Falconer in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing practical clothes borrowed from Hawkeye and was tying her hair back into a ponytail. “Pardon?”

“My knives.” She pointed at the table, where the throwing blades and spring sheaths had been left. “If you trust me enough, I’d like to have the means to defend myself.”

Ivan, busy sharpening his own knives, lifted his eyebrows. “You think we don’t trust you?” he asked, whetstone hissing across steel. It had quickly already been established that the British spy spoke reasonably good German, so they were saved the translation needed when talking with her doppelgänger.

Falconer lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t think I would.”

Ivan glanced at Noah. “We can make sure of you, girl. Or make you sure of yourself. Whichever.”

“How?”

Noah turned her hands palm upwards and held them out. “Here.”

Blinking once, Falconer laid her fingers on the darker woman’s skin. After a few seconds, Noah smiled. “You have been honest with us, Elizabeth. The only people you will be a danger to are our enemies.” The trace of a frown wrinkled her forehead. “A danger to . . .” She broke away, steadying herself against the table.

“What is it?” Ivan demanded, standing, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Really.” She pressed her eyes shut. “I . . . that man. The one you think of so often, with so much hate . . .”

Falconer stiffened. “How did you . . . hm. Clairvoyance, I suppose. A gypsy fortune-teller. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Well. I wish I could say I didn’t believe you. That man . . . the Marquis . . . I suppose I do dwell on him. I’m sorry if you saw what . . . happened between us.”

Shaking her head, Noah opened her eyes again. “No, it’s not that. It’s . . . well . . . he . . . he looks like –”

The opening of the front door cut her off. Al and Hawkeye came into the kitchen sharing the same satisfied look. “We know where the Templars are,” Al announced, putting his bag down, “And . . . err . . . hey, is everything all right?”

“We were checking Miss Falconer to see whether she could be trusted with her weapons,” Ivan growled, “And her thoughts seem to have been upsetting.”

“Noah? Are you –”

“It’s nothing, really,” she protested in English, “I saw something I . . . didn’t expect.”

“What?” Hawkeye and Falconer asked the same question within seconds of one another.

Noah flicked her gaze between them, settling briefly on Falconer before staring nervously off into a corner. “It’s not important. It can wait. What have you found out?”

Though clearly unconvinced, Al allowed the change of subject without protest. “They’re using a house across the square and another in the street behind us. At least, we think they are.”

He looked askance at Hawkeye. She nodded. “It took a while to draw them into giving themselves away but they did. Still, knowing where they are and doing something about it are completely different things. We still have no idea how many of them are out there or how long they’re going to be content to just watch us.”

“Chambers could give a stone lessons in patience,” Falconer said, bitterly, “The Marquis is less restrained but he probably won’t act before Chambers tells him to. Again, though, that information is not much use on its own.”

“There’s so much we just _can’t_ find out,” Al mused, “Not without some way of spying on _them_ . . . ”

Impatience was starting to gnaw at him as treacherous imagination thre up scenario after nightmare scenario of what might be being done to his brother and the General. Noah did not have to touch him to see that. She was thinking much the same thoughts herself, as, surely, were the others.

Unconsciously, she started fiddling with her necklace. What to do was obvious, so much so that Al and Ivan at least must have reached the conclusion at the same time she had. But neither would be willing to say it out loud. Hawkeye might but she was still not comfortable with Noah’s abilities and Falconer had only just learned about them.

She gripped her necklace tightly and looked up. “I can find out what we need.”

 

* * *

 

Ed decided that the universe as a whole – no, wait: that two universes as a whole hated his guts.

He'd been hauled out of the darkened room by a couple of black-coated goons who proceeded to manhandle him down several long corridors before dumping him unceremoniously on a rock hard bunk on one side of a six-foot square cell. They left him there, locking the door and, up ‘til that point, he could have forgiven them. They were probably only doing what they were paid to do and people, on the whole, did dumb things for money. Then he had rolled over and seen who was on the other bunk.

Frickin’ Mustang.

He was locked in a very small room with half his normal quota of limbs and his only companion was one supremely arrogant and sarcastic excuse for a cigarette lighter. “Someone up there is having a real laugh right now,” he grumbled, giving the ceiling the evil eye.

There was no answering quip. His frown changed gear and he took another, more careful look at the guy. And his breath hitched in his throat.

Mustang’s upper torso was covered in nothing but cuts, long red lines criss-crossing like a bloody roadmap. Bruises ran down his arms and his wrists looked raw and sliced up. Sweat had left his hair matted and his skin filthy. On top of all that, the eye-patch was gone, leaving the ugly scars it usually concealed clear to the world.

Ed found his tongue. “What the hell . . . Mustang? What did they do to you? Mustang?! Hey! General! Wake up!”

Either because of the desperation in the order or its sheer volume, it had the desired effect. The other alchemist moaned and shifted, his eyes fluttering. Ed pulled himself as near the gap between them as he dared, knowing that if he fell off, he would not be able to get up again. “Mustang . . . can you hear me?”

The man’s head flopped sideways. “Urr . . . ? Fullmetal . . . s'that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Can’t you see me?”

“Mm . . . just about . . . can’t focus . . .”

“What the hell did they do to you?”

The General blinked and a slow, delirious smile spread over his face. “I beat myself up. _I_ beat _myself_ up!”

Ed stared, disbelieving, as he started to laugh as if he’d just been told the best joke in the world. “You mean the other you –”

The laughter came to an end and Mustang shuddered. “The other me is a psychopath with a taste for knives and a thing for thoroughness . . . and not getting his hands dirty while he gets them dirty . . .”

“ _What_?”

“Wears gloves.” Mustang illustrated his point by waving his fingers. “Just like me.”

“You’re not a psychopath.”

“Could have been. Could have been just like Kimblee . . . or Grand. Could have been. Just didn’t have the guts.”

Feeling sick, Ed wished he were in the position to swing a punch. “You’re nothing like them, you idiot! You never could have been! Whoever did this to you . . . he isn't anything like you.”

“My face. Was my face. Doesn’t that make him me . . . ?”

“NO! No it frickin’ well doesn’t! He’s . . . he’s someone who looks like you but _isn’t_ you! He grew up here, in _another world_! His life’s completely different, _he’s_ completely different! Come on moron, you should know that appearances don’t mean anything!”

A bit of this seemed to get through, just enough to make Mustang frown, although he still looked like he didn't quite understand what Ed was saying. “Used to think only knowledge mattered,” he mumbled, “Didn't matter where it came from. My teacher knocked most of that out . . . Ishbal took the rest . . .”

“Snap out of it, matchstick! I don’t want to sit here listening to your self-pity!”

That did it. “Huh . . . hehuh . . . Look who’s talking.”

Ed relaxed a little. “Good. You’re still in there, bastard.”

“Thought I told you that wasn’t . . . argh . . . accurate.” Mustang winced and rubbed at his right temple. “Thinking shouldn’t hurt, should it . . . ?”

“Did they drug you too?”

“Urhh . . . yes . . . think so . . . kicked me, cut me, stabbed me . . . and then . . . then someone touched me. Wasn’t _him_. Someone else. Made everything feel worse . . .”

“Touched you?” Had the circumstances been different, Ed would probably have sat bolt upright. “Did you see what they looked like?”

“Err . . . ?”

“Was he wearing glasses?”

“What . . . yes . . . I think so . . . grey . . . he looked . . . grey.”

Four years travelling around Europe had greatly expanded Ed’s vocabulary. He demonstrated how much by swearing loudly and fluently in roughly five languages.

Mustang got the sentiment even if he didn't understand the content. “Something . . . wrong?”

“That,” Ed snarled, “was the guy in charge around here and I think he can read minds like Noah. So even if you didn’t talk . . .”

“Oh damn.” He let out a ragged sigh. “That was the one good thing I was holding on to . . . thanks a bunch, Fullmetal.”

“For what it’s worth, the guy’s completely insane. Wants to change everything so that alchemy works here.”

“Really?” Mustang weakly snapped his fingers. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“No it fuckin’ well doesn’t. What about all that stuff the ‘Gatekeepers’ told you? Since he needs my help to do whatever the hell it is, I’m guessing it involves alchemy being done here which _apparently_ means the end of everything. YOU HEAR THAT, CHAMBERS?!”

“Why . . . why are you shouting at the roof?”

Ed gritted his teeth, the desire to hit things returning. “Because they’ll be listening, because I want them to hear how angry they’re making me and because it makes me feel better.”

He lay back, growling. Mustang rubbed his temple again before pursing his lips. “Got any idea . . . got idea how to get out of this, Fullmetal?”

“Without my auto-mail, without alchemy and with the hell beaten out of you? We sit here and wait for the walls to rot or the end of the world, whichever comes first.”

“Urr . . . my . . . the years have worn away your boundless optimism . . . haven’t they?”

With a slightly louder growl, Ed dragged himself towards the wall, pressing his back against it. Somehow, he couldn’t quite summon up a retort or dispute Mustang’s accuracy. How the hell was he supposed to be optimistic when . . .

“What the hell are you doing?”

The faint humming broke off. “Huh? Oh . . . just thinking.”

“You need background music for that?”

Lopsidedly, Mustang smirked. “It’s what it was background music to that I was remembering.” His smirk widened at Ed’s obvious incomprehension. “Love, Fullmetal. I was going through all the people I’ve ever known and trying to decide who I’d like to give me my last kiss.”

“ _What_? Why the hell are you wasting time with something like that?!”

“Because, as you so . . . eloquently pointed out . . . we haven’t got much else to do.”

“Haven’t you got anything more important to think about?”

“ _More important . . ._? You think a kiss is . . . unimportant . . . ?”

“It’s hardly on the same scale as the universe being ripped apart, is it?”

“Oh, come on . . . they say a kiss can make the earth move . . .”

“Yeah, well. I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I?”

“What do you mean?”

“ _What do you think_?”

Mustang frowned at him with a mix of curiosity and astonishment. “Fullmetal…” He considered his next words as carefully. “You’re twenty, right?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Fullmetal, are you seriously saying that in two decades . . . you have never once kissed a girl?”

There was a moment of rather uncomfortable quiet.

“So what?” Ed repeated caustically.

Mustang struggled for an answer. “It’s just . . . no one . . . ?”

“You might not have noticed but I’ve had other things to worry about.”

“But . . . hell, Ed! No one?”

“Why is this relevant to anything?”

“But . . . surely . . . surely . . . Miss Rockbell . . .”

He’s still delirious, Ed thought, counting to ten in his head. Then to fifty. “Why would I have kissed _Winry_?”

“Because –”

“She’s my mechanic and I’ve known her since I was three. She’s the nearest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend. That’s it.”

Anyone in a healthy mental state would have abandoned the subject right then, based on Ed’s tone being cold enough to stop a lava flow in its tracks. Mustang persisted. “That’s not it. You –”

“ _Drop it, Mustang_.” Ed rolled over.

“Hmm . . .” Mustang said after a while, “Well, whatever you say, there’s no mistaking what _she_ feels about _you . . ._ ”

The younger man’s back stiffened conspicuously. “And how the fuck would you know anything about that?"

“She doesn’t put flowers on your grave.”

It occurred to Ed that his conversations lately had been peppered with a higher than normal number of stunned pauses. He rolled over again. “Grave? Flowers? _What_?”

Mustang smiled. “After the invasion, you were officially declared Killed In Action. You got a quiet state burial . . . by which I mean, they plastered it across every newspaper in the country . . . put your grave in the military yard in Central . . . Al as well. Miss Rockbell . . . she visited them . . . put flowers on Al’s grave . . . knew he wasn’t really dead but made a show of it . . . but she never once put flowers on yours. Not once.”

“ _Your point_?” Ed hissed.

“My point . . . oh, work it out yourself . . . you’re supposed to be a genius, right?” He closed his eye, giving the impression of a man shrugging off a lost cause.

The lost cause in question tried to will him to death, gave up and went _hmph_ , loudly. “Idiot.”

They lay there in an irritable silence for several minutes. The electric lamp flickered slightly. “Fullmetal.” Mustang suddenly sounded very nearly lucid. “I want you to promise me something.”

“Hn?”

“I want you to promise that when we get out of here and back home, you will kiss Miss Rockbell. I don’t care if _you_ don’t understand it, just do it.”

Ed spluttered. “I . . . ! You . . . ! We’re . . . ! And you . . . !” The abject fury slowly disappeared. It was replaced by distinct slyness. “Alright, bastard. If it’ll shut you up and let me get some rest, I’ll promise. I promise that I’ll kiss Winry . . . the day you kiss Hawkeye.”

The matter settled to his satisfaction, Ed rolled over yet again and tried to concentrate on thinking up a way to get them out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Apparently being drugged, tortured and mind-read brings out Mustang's romantic side. Who knew?  
> \- Ed really is oblivious to his feelings quite a lot of the time  
> \- Not sure what time the update will be on Monday - going to be travelling back from London, so it will likely be later than usual.


	19. Going On The Offensive

Abel had been following orders all his life and did not resent them. He had been a soldier, before a certain disagreement with his commanding officer had made it hazardous to remain in range of military justice. After that, he had drifted around the underworld for a while, hiring himself out to numerous less-than legal organisations until, eventually, he wound up among the Templars. The Marquis found the broad, silent man useful enough with a garrotte to offer him permanent employment and the opportunity had been gratefully grasped. He was essentially happy with his lot. Fighting and killing were two of the few things he was good at and any chance to exercise his skills was welcome.

What he _did_ resent was the man whose orders he currently had to follow.

Luke irritated him. The prissy, egotistical, self-loving Frenchman had, over the past few months, done more than enough to make Abel want to take him by the neck and unscrew his head. His delusions of grandeur and condescending attitude combined in a way that could have been specifically designed to get on the bigger man’s nerves.

Which meant that when he had been ordered to leave Luke’s immediate proximity, Abel leapt to obey.

Two of their targets had left the house in the marketplace, the gypsy girl and one of the Falconers, hurrying off with shopping baskets. He felt very little surprise that the treacherous bitch appeared to have gained a twin sister. He rarely felt much surprise about anything. At a discrete distance, he followed in the women’s footsteps as they threaded their way through the streets. The light was still decent and there were still a considerable number of people about. That was a double-edged sword, of course. On the one hand it made the pursuer less conspicuous, on the other, it did the same for the pursued.

Nevertheless, he kept doggedly on their trail and there was no indication that they’d seen him. Soon, the crowds thinned out and the streets became dilapidated, forcing him to take steps to conceal himself more actively. He wondered where in blazes they were going and a faint suspicion started to grow in the back of his mind. Perhaps they _were_ not noticing him a little too readily for it to be entirely natural . . .

The pair turned off suddenly, disappearing down a side alley. Abel stopped, waiting and considering. His hand went to the wire wound around his left wrist. The buildings all around were houses, old and decaying. There wasn’t anything out here that you’d need shopping baskets for. Cautiously, he edged along the wall until he was at the corner. He peered around, then allowed the rest of his body to follow his gaze. The alley was completely empty. Mental alarm bells going off at full volume, he quickly unwound the garrotte. If it was a trap, they would not get an easy victory.

He took a step forward.

The beanpole kid darted out from the shadows, low to the ground and jabbing upwards with, of all things, a quarterstaff. It caught Abel in the gut before he could react, driving all the breath out of him. The next second, the tip flicked up and smacked him on the nose. Gasping and half-blind, he tried to get back out into the open, but the kid was around him like lightning, shoving him deeper into the alley, staff slamming, one, two, into his elbows. Abel's arms when numb and he could not stop himself pitching forward on to his knees. The staff hooked around under his chin, biting into his neck. “Don't struggle,” the boy hissed, right in his ear.

Stuff that. Abel braced himself and prepared to slam his head back into the kid's face.

A shadow fell over them and something cold and sharp nicked the skin of his neck, just by the main artery. “No. Really. Don't.”

Falconer. Abel froze. The kid took the staff away and grabbed hold of Abel's arms, pinning them behind his back. “Quick,” he ordered.

Then someone else came up behind them and pressed a warm hand against Abel's forehead.

 

* * *

 

Noah braced herself against the usual mad rush of jumbled images. She could never adequately describe how it felt to, just for an instant, see through someone else’s eyes. It was something you never got used to, no matter how many times it happened. The sensation quickly passed as she went deeper. The process could not be controlled any more than you could walk on water. You always, inevitably, sank.

Memories jumbled past, some clear, others dulled, all sweeping aside the physical world until Falconer and Al were lost in the distance. Sifting the torrent was difficult – she knew she’d only be able to remember a fraction of what she saw when she surfaced again. Through sheer force of will, she managed to focus in on what they needed, snatching at images as they streamed by. Piecing them together, she slowly drew out pictures and words, weaving tapestries from threads of thought. How grateful she was to the Elric brothers for letting her practice this. Without that training, she would never have been able to make out half as much.

Eventually, feeling as she always did that the flow was becoming too much, that she was in danger of drowning, she pulled away, drawing herself back into her own mind, clutching the stolen thoughts. She became aware once more of the world outside her head, of Falconer watching her from the corner of her eye, of the heavy breathing of the man they had accosted.

“Are you all right?” Al asked.

“Yes.” Even if she hadn't been, this was no place to go into details. She slipped the coil of rope from her shopping basket and helped Al bind the Templar's hands behind his back. Balefulness rolled off him in waves. An old sock served as a gag and they left him tied up inside one of the abandoned houses.

They were in a hurry and Falconer said it was unlikely to hold him for long but that they should have enough time, if they had got what they needed. Noah took a deep breath. “There are seven more Templars in the house across the square, all of them armed. They’ve a radio set to keep in contact with their institute and they’re expecting another group to arrive soon.

The spy frowned thoughtfully, looking even more like Captain Hawkeye for a moment. “We need to move faster if they're getting reinforcements. What about the compound itself?”

“The main entrances are well guarded, and not just by the Templars. There are security guards and orderlies . . . but . . . I think there is a way we can get in . . .”

 

* * *

 

It was too much. The armed men in black she could have dismissed as guards – after all, if the Marquis really was nobility, it made sense that he would be protected, didn’t it? The scream she had thought she’d heard . . . well, she had only _thought_ she’d heard it. It could have been anything, a door creaking, the waterworks, a bird outside, something equally mundane. All those little things that had been niggling at her since their arrival at the Institute could have dismissed as the result of fatigue or nervousness or an over-active imagination or any one of the numerous accusations that Graves had levelled at her.

But that she had heard absolutely nothing about the two injured men was more than enough to leave Helen at the mercy of her curiosity. And seeing one of the black-coated gentlemen carrying a tray of food fresh from the kitchens down into a cellar she had been told was empty provided an irresistible opportunity to indulge it.

Tentatively, and feeling rather like a child sneaking down to spy on the adults, she pushed the unmarked door open and peered at the staircase. By the harsh light of an electric bulb, it was clearly empty. With as light a tread as possible and as quickly as she dared, she descended and crept into the short passage beyond. It quickly split at a T-junction, an arched tunnel leading off left and right. She stopped abruptly as she saw the back of the man and the profile of two of his comrades. They were standing in a group, murmuring to each other in German. From what she could see, she guessed that the object of their collective attention was one of the heavy-looking doors set into alcoves that ran along the tunnel walls. At any rate, she assumed that the near wall mirrored the far: she didn’t dare risk leaving the protection of the corner to check. At some length, a key was produced and one of the guards, if that was what they were, proceeded to move out of her line of sight. There was a resounding _clank_ and a soft creak of mildly grudging hinges.

This was followed, almost immediately, by an explosion of extremely irate and positively vulgar English. Helen could feel her ears going red as the voice described what it wished to do to the swordsmen in angry detail and it was only after this wave of embarrassment started to subside that something struck her. There was something about the accent and the voice itself that made her swear she had heard them both somewhere before. But before she could rack her brains on the subject, another voice, presumably the guard’s, cut across the tirade. “I can have this food put to better use,” he grated, “If you feel so bad about our company, we’ll just take it to those who’ll appreciate it.” Amid the resulting silence, there came the distinctive sound of an empty stomach protesting.

The food was passed into . . . she really did not like the implications but ‘cell’ seemed the only word that fit the situation, and eating noises emerged. The men stood in tense expectation, as thought readying themselves for an attack.

“What ‘s matter?” the angry voice asked, now less vitriolic, “Do we _look_ like we could do anything to you?”

“Shut up and eat,” was the only response.

Again, Helen felt the nagging familiarity. The accent . . . it could almost have been a far broader version of the one-eyed soldier’s. All at once, a chill shot down her spine.

“We appear to have a victim of that notorious cause of feline mortality in out midst, Job.” The purr slid over her as an oil slick might, smooth, cold and suffocating. She felt every muscle in her body freeze. “It is a most . . . difficult affliction, is it not?” Something caressed the side of her neck, the flat of an icy blade. “So insidious. So irresistible. And yet, so problematic.” The blade was removed. Its touch lingered. “Turn around little cat.”

She turned slowly and met the Marquis’ dark, glittering eyes. He stood only a couple of paces away, holding his sabre loosely at his side. One of his aides – his men? – hovered at his side, thick arms folded. The slimmer, shorter and far more terrifying man flashed his teeth. “Your services are not required down here, madam.”

“I . . .” Words caught in her throat. “I didn’t . . .”

“See anything, I’m sure,” he concluded smoothly, “Nothing memorable, anyway.”

“I . . . I – ah!”

The sword flashed between them. The Marquis sheathed it in one smooth motion and indicated the stairs with a wave of one gloved hand. “Please: don’t let us detain you.”

Helen practically jumped, desperate to escape his gaze and the things it promised. But before she could get past, he lifted a forefinger. “Oh. And I may be in to check on your memory later. Now run along.”

Unable to retain any dignity in the face of those horrible eyes, she fled as fast as her legs would carry her.

 

 

* * *

 

With a growl, Luke folded his arms and glared out at the marketplace. Something was going on, but what he did not know what. And despite what some fools would have you believe, ignorance was not and never would be bliss.

The house they were watching had been emptied. All the occupants had wandered out and into the town, looking for all the world as though they were conducting normal day-to-day activities. First there had been the gypsy girl and the Falconer’s twin – although, to be honest, it could have been her for all they knew – taking baskets to the shops. Then the man and Falconer – or whoever – had sauntered off towards the nearest pub. Finally, the Elric boy had wandered away in a seemingly random direction. After each, Templars had been sent – Abel, Isaiah, then both Lot and Benjamin.

Not a single one of them had returned. It was making Luke’s hair curl with suspicion. He had no doubt that Falconer would know she would stick out like a bonfire on a moonless night to any of the Marquis’ men who were in the area. They all knew her by sight. She was probably also aware that a watch would have been kept on the Elrics. Which meant that the covert observation was most likely nothing of the sort . . .

If their positions were reversed, Luke was pretty sure what he would be doing. And he did not like the implications. “Simeon!” he snapped, rounding on the man by the field telephone, “Find out what’s taking Issacher so long to get down here.”

The razor thin Dutchman hurriedly set to work with the machine, fearful of the higher-ranking Templar’s frayed temper.

But before he could get so much as a single valve warmed up, the door burst open under the force of a frantic Benjamin. He scrambled inside, clawing at the air, hoarse, incoherent sounds punctuating his panic. Gad sprang to help him and was just in time to catch the air he had vacated as he sprawled face down on the bare floor. This provided them all with an excellent view of the throwing knife sticking out of his back.

A second knife flew through the still open door and caught Gad in the shoulder, sending him crashing down next to Benjamin with a yell. Luke swore and opened his mouth to shout orders, hand dropping to his gun. He thought he knew what was going to happen next and prepared himself to dodge knives. He was wrong. There was a blur of movement and a woman with tightly bound blonde hair proceeded to shoot every man present. Simeon screamed, although whether this was due to the hole in his arm or those in the radio, Luke couldn’t say. He was too busy staring at the blood escaping from his leg and crumpling into a kneeling position.

With a practised movement, the gunwoman with Falconer’s face reloaded her weapon and trained it in their general direction. Behind her, the gypsy man entered, followed by Falconer herself, both with their knives drawn. Luke’s attention, however, had fixed on the first assailant as it flashed through his mind that he had never before met a female with eyes so hard. “The next of you to move,” she explained in matter of fact English, “will be dead before you can take a step.”

Luke believed her and stayed very, very still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to any on-going reader - I'm not going to post any more chapters until next week in order to catch up on my editing. Sorry about that, but hope you'll be back next Monday to carry on reading!


	20. The Illusion Of Choice

The open countryside did not seem quite as inviting as it usually did. Knowing that there were people abroad who intended no small degree of harm to you and yours tended to have that effect on even the most pleasant of spots. Which was a shame, Al decided, because right now he could do with some cheering up.

Hawkeye had sent him and Noah on ahead, telling them bluntly that neither would be of use in overpowering the Templars. The young psychic had little experience in fighting and the younger Elric brother, while a more than adequate combatant, lacked the necessary qualifications for dealing with armed mercenaries. Which would be ranged weapons and the killer instinct, he thought bitterly, even if his current feelings bordered on the murderous. If they had hurt Ed . . .

He pushed those images aside and fought for focus: he had to look after Noah, they had to get into the institute, they had to help Ed and the General. Simple. Except it wouldn’t be, but at least they now knew a way in that would be relatively unguarded and therefore reasonably easy to use. That was the hope, anyway.

Noah stumbled, foot twisting in a rabbit hole. Catching her, he tried not to let a sudden burst of frustration show. Every fibre of him wanted to run as fast as possible, to charge and break the gates of the place down. Had he still been a suit of armour, he probably would have already done so.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” she answered quickly.

 _Just as impatient as me_. He smiled and kept a hand on her arm until they were over the rise, as much to offer comfort as support. And to draw it.

They were both dressed in dark clothes, all of which were from Al’s limited wardrobe, Noah’s usual dresses not being exactly the sort of thing you went sneaking about in. Admittedly, the staff did not exactly lend itself to secrecy either, but he did have practice at moving covertly while carrying it. It felt reassuringly solid in his grip, even if he was none too sure how effective it would be against swords and guns.

Hopefully he wouldn't have to find out too quickly.

The rise gave way to a far gentler downward slope covered in trees. Their path avoided the copse in which Ed and Mustang had been captured, instead working its way around to the opposite side of the fence-enclosed compound. The twilight was making the shadows steadily deeper, offering gratefully received cover. With luck, it would be enough to get them to where they needed to be without the risk of discovery. With even more luck, the information they had stolen from Abel’s mind would prove to be accurate.

“This way.” Noah pointed to the left, where the foliage became thicker before cutting off entirely about a hundred and fifty feet from the fence.

Al nodded slowly, eyes flicking to the just-visible buildings. “Let’s take this slowly,” he murmured back, “We’re getting pretty close . . .”

 

* * *

 

Mustang watched with considerable astonishment, not to mention some slight admiration, as Ed proceeded to eat at a snail’s pace. He himself had been unable to keep from attacking the bread and soup at once but his companion had manoeuvred the plate into lap and set about eating with pedantic precision. The contrast with the thrashing, bellowing ball of anger he’d been minutes earlier was as strong as that induced by a light switch. If one had not been previously acquainted with the Fullmetal Alchemist, one might have attributed this sudden slowness to the loss of an arm. Being well aware that he was in fact perfectly capable of demolishing any meal single-handed in a matter of minutes, Mustang let the shock give way to covert amusement and lay back to admire their guard’s expression.

It went, in order, from professional blankness to bored disinterest to mild annoyance to a manful effort at resisting the urge to grind teeth. The process took the best part of a quarter of an hour, by which point Ed had finally got two thirds of the way through his food. One more minute of pointedly careful chewing was too much for the poor man.

“Hurry it up!” the guard snapped.

“Why?” the youth retorted, swallowing, “I got nothing else to fill the time.”

Now looking on the verge of murderousness, the Templar took a deep, steadying breath. “Get a move on or I’ll start shoving it down your throat.”

“You don’t have to stay and ogle me eating.” Ed waved his spoon about. “Do I look like I’ll be able to make this into a knife and attack someone? Or start digging a tunnel with it?” A low, ominous sound escaped his victim’s throat. He gave the briefest of triumphant grins and finished what was left of the soap in thirty seconds. “There yah go,” he drawled, holding out the bowl, “Any chance of seconds?”

The answer was decidedly negative, what with the empty vessel being snatched away and the door being slammed, both actions undertaken with as much violence as could be mustered.

“That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble . . .” mumbled Mustang, over a burst of pain from his wounds.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” came the repost.

“Nice of them to feed us.” He shifted into a slightly less uncomfortable position. “And with good food too. I was expecting stale bread and water.”

“I’ve had that. Don’t complain.”

“I’m not. I’m just surprised.”

“Yeah. Guess they want to make us feel at home.”

“He did ask for your help.” No question as to who ‘he’ was.

“If that bastard thinks he can soften me up with food, I must have been wrong about the mind reading.” Ed fell silent for a few seconds, tapping his foot against the cell wall. “Why'd you come?”

Mustang frowned. “To this place?”

“To this world.”

“The Gatekeepers asked me to.”

“Why'd you believe them?”

“Honestly? No idea. I can't think of a single rational reason I bought their story.”

“Hm.”

“You got an idea about that, Fullmetal?”

“Maybe.” He stopped tapping his foot. “I've seen the Gate. I know it sounds crazy but the damn thing's real. When you look into it, when you see what's in there . . . it _feels_ like the truth. The Truth. It's . . . everything. Disbelieving it would be like . . . not believing in air. What if these Gatekeepers you met are like that too?”

“You mean . . . what they're saying is true on such a fundamental level that it's impossible not to believe them?”

“Yeah.”

“Hn. Weaponised honesty. There's a scary concept.”

“Of course you'd think so.”

Any retort Mustang could have made to that was cut off by the loud clunk of the door unlocking again. It swung outwards to reveal the Marquis, immaculate in black and white. “Gentlemen,” he said in the smooth tones of someone very much enjoying himself, “If you aren’t too busy, your presence is requested elsewhere.” A thin smile flashed across his face. “Mr Chambers would like a word.”

 

* * *

 

Noah knew where she was going, despite never having been there before. Navigating from someone else’s memories was not like reading a map, more like catching glimpses of things you half-recognised and making a guess as to where you had to go next. She knew the shape of the broken wall as it had looked when the man who called himself Abel had last passed this way, for instance, and that spurred the image of the rough path on the other side and then she knew how far along it they had to go before turning in the direction of the institute. “Look for a metal plate, half buried in the earth,” she told Al, nodding to the field they were walking past, “I think there will be branches piled up on it to look like a bush.”

He nodded, eyes roving the grass. “There,” he pointed after a few minutes and soon they were pulling greenery side to reveal a slab of dull iron set into a square of small stone blocks.

Al brushed a hand over the hatch, clearing some of loose dirt that coated it. There was a padlock holding it closed, looped through a ring hammered into the stones. He fished around in his pocket and produced a length of bent wire. “Let's see if Ivan and brother's lessons paid off.”

It took him a couple of minutes, time Noah spent nervously watching for any sign of anyone spotting them. The click and scrape of the lock coming off made her jump. “There we go,” Al said, levering the hatch up. It moved smoothly, without any of the creaking she had expected. The opening yawned darkly, a ladder disappearing down into the space below.

A smuggling tunnel. Miss Falconer said they had been finishing them off when she left the Institute. Abel's memories said there was a trick release that allowed exit from within while the lock prevented anyone getting the hatch open from without. Theoretically. Defence was based more on no one knowing the tunnel was there than anything more substantial. The man who called himself Abel had not liked that but had trusted to his superiors' knowledge.

Al straightened and slipped his staff free of the straps that held it across his back. “OK. This is it. Ready?”

Forcing herself not to hesitate, Noah nodded.

 

* * *

 

Something was wrong. Solomon scowled out of the passenger's side window, blocking out Issacher's perpetual fidgeting in the back seat and the way the driver was glancing nervously sideways and licking his lips.

Across the backstreet, there was no one at the back door to the house. No one awaiting their arrival. Which meant that standard procedure was being disregarded. Which set Solomon's mind into concerned motion. Possibilities and probabilities fanned out before him, of mistakes and preoccupation, of accidents and necessity, of disclosure and confrontation. His frown deepened and his big hands flexed.

The Marquis' instructions had been precise. Whatever the other Elric boy and his allies were up to, it was to be stopped immediately and they were to be brought back to the Institute, Mr Chamber's patience be damned. Solomon knew the Marquis' moods well. He was concerned that their employer's reluctance to act pre-emptively would allow too great an opportunity for mischief to be made – and as much as he would never admit it, the notion of two Falconers being at large made him nervous.

Solomon understood. Loose ends caused problems. Too much rope risked strangling the hangman. He scanned the windows carefully, looking from the corner of his eye. There. Downstairs. A slightly movement. A metallic glint.

“Drive on,” he ordered, signalling the driver to take them just around the corner while flashing a 'back up' sign through the rear window. The situation was obvious. Luke's group had been compromised. There were guards at the entrance, possibly a sniper lying in wait. Mischief was indeed afoot.

Heedless of being seen by the locals – for they would be gone long before the alarm was raised – he sprang from the car and beckoned Issacher to follow, making sure the other man was properly armed. Along the street, directly in his line of sight but hidden from the house windows, he saw three more black-coated figures emerge. His hands flashed again, signals exchanged and acknowledged. The Templars moved as one and Solomon began to count.

Reaching thirty, he slipped along to just before the little yard that backed on to the house. Dropping, he crawled along behind the low wall, keeping low enough to be hidden and slipping his gun from its holster. He reached back. Issacher slapped a metal canister into his hand, black with a green band. Solomon's fingers found the trigger mechanism.

His count reached sixty.

In one smooth movement, going purely on memory, he flung the grenade over the wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And we're back!  
> \- I heavily reworked the end scene in this one from the original version, which has meant I had to make a couple of small changes to the previous chapter. This is why I've been working with a buffer of two or three chapters previous to this - I'll have to try and maintain that from here on out!


	21. Walking Blithely In

Had Hawkeye been a fraction slower, all three of them would probably have been dead. She sprang away from the window seconds before the grenade smashed through, driving Falconer and Ivan back. It burst into a cloud of noxious white vapour and they escaped into the front room with seconds to spare. Her eyes streamed and her stomach churned but she was not overcome and neither were they.

A splintering crash came from the hallway. The front door. Hawkeye whirled, gun raised. Falconer was quicker. A knife sliced through the air and embedded itself in a Templar's arm. He yelled and crashed backwards. One of his friends used him as a diversion and slipped a pistol around the door frame, firing wildly into the room. Ignoring the muffled cries of protest from the men they'd taken prisoner, Ivan tipped over the radio table as a make-shift shield. The three of them darted behind it, Hawkeye returning fire, trying to gauge how quickly the noise would attract the local law enforcement agencies. She had no idea how attentive or responsive they were but a shoot-out would have to bring them in force. If they could just hold out long enough –

Something massive and dark barrelled through the door they had slammed against the gas, breaking it clean off its hinges. Traces of vapour curled crazily in the wake a huge man in a black coat, his face protected by a cloth mask. He was on them in seconds, one massive hand swatting Hawkeye's gun away, another smashing into the side of Ivan's head. Falconer's knives flashed and cut across his chest. He barely seemed to notice, just reached past the blades and grabbed a fist-full of her shirt, jerking her off her feet.

Hawkeye dived for her weapon, knowing it was her only chance. A booted foot kicked it out of her reach. She looked up into the face of a skinny blonde-haired man. He had a glass eye and was pointing his pistol squarely at her forehead. “Make a move,” he drawled with a sickly smile, “I dare yah.”

She stayed perfectly still.

The big man tossed Falconer down beside her. Using the distraction, Ivan surged up behind him and tried to bury a dagger in his neck. The Templar was too fast though and blocked skilfully. “Daniel will shoot them both if you don't surrender immediately,” he growled, looking Ivan in the eye.

Slowly, reluctantly, the _Roma_ backed up and raised his hands, letting his weapons clatter to the floor.

“Well now.” Daniel was still smiling. “Ain't this a fine party?”

“Get them to the cars,” the big man ordered curtly, “The Marquis wants to see them immediately.”

A shudder ran through Falconer's body. Daniel gestured with his gun. Hawkeye clenched her jaw and helped her double up, thinking hard. They were at a tactical disadvantage, overwhelmingly so. For now, they would have to accept that and surrender.

But they were still heading after the General and Edward and if Hawkeye knew one thing, it was that those two had a knack for causing the kind of chaos that made conditions perfect for escape attempts.

 

* * *

 

Being in an armchair was moderately more pleasant than being in a prison cell. That was the single entry on Ed’s list of ways the situation had improved. The list of ways he could think of making it better was virtually infinite by comparison and involved, among other things, the return of his auto-mail followed by excessive violence.

Aside from the space immediately around the desk and chairs, the room was in darkness, which left him wanting to add a suggestion that the bastards buy some fucking light bulbs into the stream of obscenities that he was barely containing to the confines of his head. That wasn’t why he couldn’t see most of the people nearby, of course. That was because they were all standing behind him and he was not about to look round when the current cause of his less than even temper was sitting in front of him. Chambers was watching him silently from over steepled fingertips, staring levelly and unblinkingly. He was still wearing those damn glasses, that same drab suit – how the hell could anyone find clothes that dull? – and the same infuriatingly non-expression.

Somewhere over Ed’s shoulder, someone gave the sort of muffled grunt that naturally followed being shoved into a chair. “Nice of you to make us comfortable,” Mustang murmured.

“I apologise if this does not match your personal assessment of your worth,” the Marquis replied, with equal sarcasm and a smirk that Ed knew was there without looking.

“Enough,” Chambers said before Mustang could get in one of the retorts he thought were witty.

He lowered his hands and pressed them flat against his desk. “Mr Elric, you have had time to reflect upon our earlier discussion.”

“Your earlier monologue,” Ed corrected under his breath.

Not a flicker crossed Chambers’ face. “Have you made a decision?”

“Yeah. I decided you’re a mad bastard who keeps pet sadists. Can we go now?”

“I was referring to whether you were going to willingly assist me in my endeavours.”

“You mean the bit where you implied if I didn't you'd do things to me that’d make walking naked through Siberia look like a good time?”

“I would do nothing to you.”

“No, that’s right. You’d get Mustang Two over there to do it for you. Nice touch having flame-brain beaten up first. It might have worked if I didn’t think he deserved it.”

The Marquis chuckled. “You imitate courage well, young man.”

“Imitate?” Mustang rasped and Ed snapped his mouth shut, insult left unshouted. “Edward Elric,” the General continued, “is one of the bravest men I know. He has a complete obliviousness to personal danger that most people only get after being dropped on their heads as children. He might have the charm and sophistication of a sixteen year old pig farmer and have some truly spectacular blind-spots when it comes to other people's feelings but if you're relying on him lacking courage to get you your own way, you may as well give up now.”

There was a brief silence, during which Ed's mouth dropped open again.

“Very loyal of you,” Chambers acknowledged solemnly, “But we both know there is far more to Mr Elric’s attitude to life than that.”

Closing his eyes, Ed made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “General, shut up and save your strength. Look, _Benedict_ , why do you even _want_ to make alchemy work here? If you're smart enough to work out how to do that, you gotta know that would happen if people like the Thule Society or the Nationalsozialistische were able to use it. If the Kaiser's armies or the British had had it in the war, they'd have blown up Europe! This world needs another weapon like it needed Spanish flu!”

Chambers' glasses flashed. “Alchemy isn't a weapon, Mr Elric. You know that. It is a tool. Improperly applied it can be dangerous but properly applied? No more protracted rebuilding. No more scrambling for precious metals. Technology improved. Science advanced exponentially. The it could bring to medicine alone would make it worthwhile. Six years ago, tens of millions of people died because of the Spanish flu. With medicine aided by alchemy, that number could have been quartered. You believe the world does not need that, Mr Elric?”

“You work with people like that –” Ed stabbed a thumb at the Marquis, “– and you expect me to believe you're doing so this world can get _better_?”

“I do what must be done to _make_ it better.” Chambers actually made a fist at that, gently thumping his desktop. “If that means employing such men then so be it.”

“What about my world – our world?” Mustang asked quietly. “What happens to that? All the people who rely on alchemy over there?”

“It will survive. Your world has leached ours to provide for itself for millennia. Do not expect me to be greatly distressed when that situation is reversed.”

Ed let out a long, whistling breath. “What the hell do you need from me anyway? You still haven't explained that.”

“A very reasonable question.” Chambers folded his hands together. “While I am capable of constructing a means of bringing about my goals in abstract, the technicalities present difficulties. Alchemy performed in this world requires that two factors be satisfied. First, the matter being transmuted must have its origins in the _other_ world. The matter of this universe would respond to the energies of its alternate but those are, obviously, unavailable at present. Second – almost paradoxically – the alchemist involved must be aware of the fundamental nature of both realities, so that he may adequately transpose the required power across the divide in a manner that does not accord with the previously established nature of things.”

“You mean, they need to know everything. Which means they have to have looked into the Gate.”

“Precisely.”

“Or, to put it another way, without a real alchemist like me, you might as well go home and forget this ever happened.”

“I already have the assistance of an alchemist.”

“Right. So, what? He’s not good enough?”

“He is perfectly competent. However the nature of the reactions I require makes them unstable. One alchemist alone could not effectively control them. I assure you that if this were not the case, I would not be troubling you.”

“Except when it didn’t work and you destroyed the world,” Mustang pointed out, “I believe you’ve seen inside my head – did you happen to notice some beings called Gatekeepers who mentioned a few things about what would happen if alchemy happens in this world many more times? Any more tampering with the Gate and I’ll never get to spend an afternoon alone with my paperwork ever again.”

Chambers looked at him and blinked. “I am fully aware of the Gate’s current malaise. In fact, I fully encourage it. There is no better time to establish a new order than when the old is crumbling.”

“I see . . .” Mustang squinted. “And the universe going with it doesn’t seem a little bit of a downside because . . . ?”

“You assume that that is a necessary consequence of the Gate’s failure.”

“The Gatekeepers –”

“Speak only the truth, yes. But that does not mean that they are incapable of deception. After all, they neglected to mention to you the second condition for performing alchemy here, did they not? They speak the _precise_ truth. That is not to say that they speak the _complete_ truth. They are spawn of the Gate, they are _part_ of the Gate. Were it to fall, it would be, for them, the end of everything. That is not to say that it would be the end of _us_.”

“ _Anyway_ . . .” Ed fidgeted. “Back to you needing me. Even if I did help – which I'm not going to – you need matter from our world. Where’re you going to get that? Mail-order?”

“I have the necessary material.”

“Yeah? Where –”

He jerked and twisted to stare, wide-eyed, at Mustang, then glared back at Chambers, who sighed.

“There is no need for melodrama, Mr Elric. Since I was unaware of the General or Captain Hawkeye's arrival in this world until recently, they were not even considered as resources.”

“Then what –”

“Quite apart from the substantial quantities of metal in your possession, the elements contained within Professor Huskisson’s bomb were more than enough.”

After a short lull while the words struck home, a slow grin broke through Ed’s annoyance. “Really? Shame you don't have it then, isn't it?”

“Of course I have it, Mr Elric. The late professor’s invention served as an excellent source of matter and a lure for you and your brother. Placing the replica for you to find was merely the last stage in drawing you out –”

“ _Replica_?! WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE WITH THE REAL ONE, YOU BASTARD?!”

“Dismantled it. Do you really expect me to have allowed a device of such destructive power to be left in the hands of the military or fanatics? I have no wish to see my world annihilated by the stupidity of the glory obsessed. The components were reduced to their base constituents and cast into more useful forms.” He paused. “Of course, that was not the first source I exploited. Objects have been passing through the Gate for far longer than either of us has been alive. Once one knows what to look for and where to seek it, the materials are not hard to find.”

He took a stick of chalk from his pocket and offered it to Ed. He took it warily. “What’s this?”

“It is more what it partly is. Others have come through before you. They were of your world.”

The chalk flew across the room. “You. Are. Insane.”

“I am simply using the available resources.”

“You call bones ‘available resources’?!”

“Once they are just bones, they are no more and no less.”

Speechless, seething, Ed very nearly launched himself out of the chair and tried to throttle Chambers one-handed. It was only the physical impossibility of that succeeding that stopped him trying, and even then, only barely.

In a perfectly level voice, Mustang asked, “Who is this other alchemist? Seems to me that Fullmetal can’t make a well informed decision about all this if he doesn’t know who you want him to work with.”

The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “I’m loathe to say it but he does have a point.” He smirked. “If nothing else, having our other guest up here will be . . . entertaining.”

 

* * *

 

The tunnel was low and surprisingly rough. Al fiddled about with the dark lantern, letting a thin beam of light play over his surroundings. For some reason, he had expected it to be a proper stone passageway but it was more like a mine tunnel: rough walls held up with sturdy wooden props. There was stones laid on the floor, but only in a narrow strip down the middle.

Noah finished closing the hatch behind them and dropped down from the ladder to join him. There were pipes slung between the props he noticed, following the line of the tunnel.

“What do you think this is for?” She was kneeling down, pointing at something between the flagstones. Looking closer, he saw a line of metal, barely as thick as his little finger, in the gap between the stones.

Curious, he knelt as well and moved the lantern closer. The metal was smooth, the line unbroken and like the pipes, ran off in either direction as far as he could see. “Huh . . .” He rubbed his chin, not sure what to make of it.

“Some sort of rail?” Noah suggested, “Or a wire? An alarm?”

“I don't think so. It must be here for some reason but I . . . I don't know what. Hopefully if it's important, we'll work it out on the way.” He stood up and looked up, then down the tunnel. “Which way do you think we should go?”

“Both directions go around under the grounds. I can't . . .” She frowned in concentration. “I can't see which way would be best. But shouldn't we wait for Captain Hawkeye and the others?”

“That's . . . what we agreed,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Noah smiled at him. “But Ed wouldn't.”

“No. He'd charge in through the front gates, shouting loud enough they'd hear him in Paris and hitting everything in sight.” He sighed and hefted his staff. “Not a good plan. OK. We'll give them . . .” Checking his watch, he nodded decisively. “We'll give them twenty minutes. If they started out after us like they planned, they should be here by then. If not, we go . . . that way.”

And then . . . well, they'd just have to do whatever they could and hope that would be enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Some more rearrangement of the fight scenes at the Templar house - originally, it was Issacher, not Solomon who led it, but I realised I hadn't given Solomon anything to do.  
> \- Also edits to the exchange in Chambers' office to make it a bit more clear why he's doing what he's doing.


	22. Drawing Together

“Mr Chambers would like the Patient taken up to his office immediately.” Helen jerked, losing hold of her charge’s hand. Anna stood over her, arms folded, expression sour. “We have been instructed to _make him decent_.”

“Why . . .” Trailing off, Helen brushed her skirt and got to her feet. “Now that’s a silly question, isn’t it?”

“On the grounds that we are too lowly to actually be informed as to the purpose of our orders, yes my dear, it most certainly is.”

The Patient moaned, shifting on the bed. His eyes flicked to the wheelchair. “Yes,” Helen sighed, “I’m afraid we’ll have to move you again.” He smiled weakly and eased himself into a sitting position. She smiled back and helped him move over to the edge. “Anna . . . have you ever wondered what Chambers . . . what he does when they’re alone together?”

“Frequently but I find it best not to think about it too much.”

“Yes . . .” Running a hand across the Patient’s head, she frowned. “What do you two do?”

He looked up at her, silent as ever, and smiled again.

 

* * *

 

The Marquis smiled the kind of smile that sent anyone with any sense running for the nearest fortified position.

“How kind of them to present themselves to us quite so neatly.”

Cain bobbed up and down in front of him. Even after so long in service as a Templar, he still retained a healthy amount of sheer terror when in his leader's presence. There was something gratifying about the way he would sooner face down rabid wolves than be close to L'enfer for any length of time. “S-sir? Should I relay any message to Solomon?”

“Simply tell him that I am pleased. And look forward to what happens next.”

“Y-yes sir!” The young man saluted and scurried away. The Marquis watched him go with a slight sneer then went back into Chamber’s office.

Simply to prevent an excessive amount of noise, they had acceded to the ‘requests’ that the two armchairs be put facing each other. Elric was contenting himself with perfecting a particularly venomous narrowing of the eyes that would, if left to continue, likely result in the instant decapitation of anyone who had happened to get in its way. As far as the Marquis could tell, 'King Bradley' was doing nothing but watch.

Until, that is, he stirred and addressed his fellow prisoner. “Tell me Fullmetal . . . are you actually considering doing what they want?”

“He is,” L’enfer interjected smoothly, “if he has any intelligence to speak of.”

Both the seated men stiffened, going on the defensive in an instant. Neither answered him. Leaning on the back of the double’s chair, he scrutinized Elric. “Hmm . . . indulge my curiosity. The two of you clearly don’t especially care for one another . . . which means that you defend each other from respect. Or loyalty. Which would make your relationship one between comrades rather than friends. So what are you? Military, obviously, but how so? Equals? No, not if you are a general. Elric is too young. Commander and subordinate then. Does that mean that alchemists are suborned to non-alchemists . . . or does that mean that _you_ are an alchemist yourself?”

Silence.

“Oh, come now . . .” L'enfer continued in a purr “Chambers only tells me what he thinks I need to know and you” – he tapped ‘King Bradley’ on the shoulder – “were not especially helpful earlier. I’d have been impressed if it weren’t for the screaming. And I do hate ignorance.” More silence. He looked from one to the other. “Well then . . . if you are both alchemists, can you at least tell me a little of what it is like to be able to control the world so absolutely? I am looking forward to finding out for myself but forewarned and forearmed and so forth. If we are to change the world, it would be pleasant to know what to expect.”

Silence persisted.

L’enfer’s eyes rolled heavenwards. “I’ve had more productive conversations talking to myself.”

Elric snorted loudly. “’Course you have,” he sneered, “Doing that’s the only way you’re able to open your mouth and not piss someone off.”

“And how would you know that?” the Marquis enquired, too pleasantly.

“Because you two have _some_ things in common.”

“You mean, I annoy you?”

“Nah. You don’t annoy me. No one’s going to tell me not to hate you.”

“People tell you not to hate him?”

“All the time.”

“He gives you reason to hate him?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And do you?”

“Excuse me,” the person in question interrupted, “I’m sitting right here.”

The Marquis glanced down at him, mouth curling. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Graves mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. He was not a man who dealt with pressure well and being surrounded by the Templars was far from calming. Particularly Lazarus. The Marquis’ ‘doctor’ made his skin crawl almost as much as the man himself, what with his soft, halting voice and his creeping way of . . . well, creeping about the place.

“Things appear to – be progressing apace, hmm – Dr Graves?” he said, gliding up to draw some files from a cabinet drawer.

“Y-yes,” the Englishman stammered back, “I suppose they are.” He was trying desperately to find some sort of comfort in watching the nurses manoeuvring the Patient into his wheelchair and failing dismally. It wasn’t _just_ Lazarus – there were gun-toting guards by the door and wandering up and down outside in what was probably a very fine and upstanding military fashion – but he was by far the worst. And he was always so damn polite, always so . . . _efficient_. It was blasted unnatural, almost as bad as Benedict could be when he wanted.

“Your patient is – much improved.”

“He is.”

Lazarus fingered the files and followed the wheelchair as Nurse Jameson propelled it the length of the infirmary, Simons tottering along behind her.

Grateful to have an excuse to get away from him, Graves left the Templar standing by the cabinet and hurried to chivvy his subordinates along unnecessarily. “Come along, come along! We must not keep Mr Chambers waiting!”

“Of course, doctor,” Simons answered levelly, opening the door for Jameson.

Stuffing his handkerchief away, Graves followed. So, much to his discomfort, did Lazarus. “Dr Graves – would you be – so kind as to pass on a message – to the Marquis de L’enfer?”

“I . . . suppose so . . .”

“Please inform him that the – devices have been examined thoroughly – and are now reassembled as per his instructions to me.”

“What devices?”

Lazarus gave him a tight smile in place of an answer.

Graves harrumphed. “Very well. I’ll tell him.”

Lazarus’s smile widened very briefly. “My – thanks.”

 

* * *

 

The lamplight jerked and darted over the tunnel walls, leading the way to the echoes of their footsteps. The air felt cold and clammy and very, very still. The only noises were those echoes.

Twenty minutes had elapsed without sign of Ivan or Captain Hawkeye or Miss Falconer. Al and Noah had given them a few minutes more then set off as agreed, no doubt sharing knots of worry and anticipation in their stomachs. Around them, the passage continued much the same, the rail in the floor and the pipes above their heads following its gentle curve in towards the institute.

Every so often, Al would glance over his shoulder, looking back the way they had come. At first, Noah assumed he was checking to see if they were being followed. After a while though, she began to notice that he was looking more at the roof of the tunnel than along it, his face growing increasingly tight and drawn.

“Are you all right?”

His head snapped round at the question. He relaxed slightly. “Yes. I'm fine.” Reached out, he rapped the wall with the end of his staff. It made a dull _thwack_ sound against the compacted earth. “Do you have an idea of how much further we need to go to get into one of the buildings?”

“It seemed to be quite far. There are lot of ways down here but they're all spaced out and none of them are close to the surface entrance.” She made a helpless gesture. “I’m afraid the memories don’t help much – he didn’t really remember this place very well.”

“It’s OK Noah . . . we couldn’t have got in without you.” He touched her arm. “You didn’t have to put yourself in danger like this.”

She reached up and laid her hand on his. “Yes I did. And you aren’t all right. What's wrong, Al?”

Al pressed his lips together. She could feel his thoughts bubbling and spinning as he tried to avoid answering. “I . . . I'm worried about Ed. And the General, and Hawkeye.”

“It's not just that.”

“No . . . this place . . . it's too closed in and . . .” He shook himself. “But that doesn’t matter. Now we’re in here, there’s no sense waiting around.”

They set off again, the lantern light swinging to and fro once more.

 

* * *

 

Helen eased the wheelchair into the main building, careful not to let it slip on the threshold. The Patient gazed about curiously, more alert now than he had been since the accident. With the bandages no longer restricting his head, he was able to indulge the natural human instinct to take in every detail of the world around you. Just watching him do so was enough to wash away all the pain of having to watch as he had suffered his way back to life. If Anna felt the same, she did not show it. Likely she was more focused on the irritation of having to walk in Graves’ wake. _He_ clearly did not care one way or the other while he was forced to be anywhere near Chambers and the Templars.

There was a sort of honour guard of the black-clothed soldiers around their little party, three in front, three bringing up the rear. It was unsettling to be surrounded by so many armed men, unsettling and – if she were honest with herself – quite frightening. Now she came to think about it, she could not remember there being so many of them out in the open before. Every second doorway was occupied either by one of them or a cluster of orderlies.

They all looked so sombre too, as though they were all standing in anticipation of something momentous.

Chambers was waiting for them, neat and tidy and bland. Helen tried again to find some hint of emotion in his face and once more failed. Graves hurried ahead, almost pushing past the Templars before he realised what he was doing and dodged aside instead. “Chambers, old man,” he blustered, “Hope we didn’t keep you. I told Simons and Jameson to get a move on but –”

“Do not concern yourself, Thomas. Time is not yet of the essence.”

“Ah . . . I see . . . oh, err . . . that Lazarus chappie . . . he gave me a message for the Marquis de . . . um . . . for the Marquis. Would you . . . I’d rather . . . if you wouldn’t mind –”

“What is the message?”

“Oh, ah, yes . . . it was something about some device or other being examined and put back together or some such.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

Without another word, Chanbers left Graves and approached the Patient. “Hello my friend. I’m sorry for disturbing your rest again but there is someone here who would like to meet you.”

The boy in the wheelchair made a soft sound that might have been a question.

“It is Mr Elric,” Chambers told him, “Mr Elric and a comrade of his. I apologise in advance if they seem somewhat hostile to you. I would anticipate that Mr Elric’s reaction in particular will be less than pleasant. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he may become extremely violent. I say this so that you may prepare yourself.” Straightening, he spared a glance for Helen and Anna. “And I would recommend that you do the same. These men are less than pleased at the circumstances they find themselves in. I trust that you will both remain professional throughout.”

Slightly perplexed by the statement, Helen nodded dumbly. Anna merely sniffed.

Chambers walked to the door, opening it without ceremony. Graves waved frantically at the nurses and Helen set the wheelchair in motion. She spent the time it took to get the contraption from the corridor to the doorway puzzling over what Chambers could possibly have meant. Who on Earth was Mr Elric and why should he become violent?

Then she looked up and saw the room for the first time and stopped as though striking a solid wall.

Two chairs sat in front of the desk that dominated the far end of the office. One of them was turned away from the door, its occupant visible only as a tangled mop of black hair sticking up above the back and a hand resting on the nearside arm. The other was facing the newcomers, the man sitting there in full and complete view.

The man.

Helen screwed up her eyes for an instant, trying to convince herself that she was seeing things, that it was a trick of shadow and light, of tiredness and being overwrought. Logically, though, she knew it could not be. The light, on the chairs at least, was good. She was well rested. Yet what other explanation . . .

A jolt of the mind took her back to a railway platform, to a brief glimpse of a laughing stranger with a face that he should not have had. The same astonishment she felt then had hold of her now as she saw him clearly. It was the same man, even if his clothes were different, dirtier, torn, even if he was now a cripple, his right arm, his left shin, both replaced by empty air. The same face, the same hair, the same eyes . . . an impossible, incredible ghost sitting there, going pale as shock weighted his jaw down.

A ghost.

Edward’s ghost.

But that was completely ludicrous.

Because the boy she had known in London, the boy she remembered laughing at the dinner table, the boy who had been crushed and burned beneath the carcass of an airship, the boy who had been found shattered and twisted, the boy who had been cocooned in bandages to preserve the miraculous flicker of life that remained within him, the boy who had spent eight years slowly healing –

That boy was sitting in the wheelchair she was gripping tighter and tighter in an effort to cling to some sort of sanity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Personal theory: memories of being stuck in the armour have given Al a degree of claustrophobia.  
> \- I'm travelling over the weekend, so Monday's update may be a bit delayed. On the plus side: I'm going to the Thought Bubble Comic Convention in Leeds. Wah-hey!


	23. Intermission 3: A Flower in the Desert

Rose had never been a heavy sleeper. Not for as long as she could remember, anyway. Once, she supposed she must have been able to close her eyes and rest ‘til dawn without once waking up, tangled in the sheets and drenched in panicked sweat. But that was before Kain had died, before the downfall of Cornello, before the war, before Lyra, before Ed’s sacrifice, before Tawny . . .

She sat up in bed, pulling her limbs free of the bedclothes. Her hair clung to her face, pale and dark mixing haphazardly. There was an ache behind her eyes, the dull, uncomfortable throb of a nightmare half-remembered, slowly fading as she focused on her surroundings.

The room was far too big, really. But it had been all she could do to stop Mr Armstrong rebuilding the house – and every other house in the city – into a mansion and the compromise was not something she should complain about. And it meant there was plenty of space for the orphans who had yet to find homes elsewhere. Because though it made her feel slightly guilty, she couldn’t help but be a little thankful that she and Tawny were not on their own. That would have made the dreams so much worse . . .

Sliding across so she could reach the bedside table, Rose lifted a beaker to her lips. The warm water wetted her parched throat and woke her up fully enough for the sounds that filled the house to register properly. Or rather, the lack of them.

With a frown, she put the cup down and rubbed her eyes. Early morning light was just creeping through the gaps in the shutters, gradually dispelling night's gloom from the sparse furnishings. But there was none of the usual accompanying noise, none of the distant creaks and rustles from the city outside. For one terrifying moment, she thought she’d gone deaf. Then the bedsprings went _sprang_ and the unreasonable fear was gone, leaving only curiosity.

She stifled a yawn, threw the covers aside and, after fishing around for a second to find her sandals, got up. Everything around her felt . . . tense. Expectant. The hush was absolute outside of her movement, so much so that the entire house might have been cut off from the rest of the world. Even the air felt heavy. Opening the shutters reassured her that the city was still there but as she watched, not one dust mote stirred, not one bird, not one cat or mouse or . . . well, anything.

She decided very quickly that the stillness was not natural.

Turning away, she crossed to the door. The landing was empty, which was hardly unexpected. The other doors were shut, as they should be. She hesitated. The tension was palpable now, all around her. For the first time since awaking, she started to worry. And, as always, her first fears were for Tawny.

His room was first along from hers. She tiptoed to it and went in, as quietly as she could. The bed sat at the far end, beneath the window. The shape under the sheets was huddled up, seemingly as still as the air. Hurrying over, Rose breathed a sigh of relief when she came close enough to see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her son was on his side, snub-nosed face peaceful, black hair in complete disarray. She smiled without thinking, laying a hand on his head. So much light and goodness to have come from so much darkness and evil. Was that the equivalent exchange alchemists were so fond of talking about? Sometimes she wondered . . .

The five-year-old stirred, murmuring in his sleep. She stepped back, smoothing the covers.

And realised, as if finally opening her eyes, that they were not alone.

The figures were clustered around the bed, completely engulfed in their white robes. At once, she knew they were aware of her, but not one of them reacted. They might have been carved from marble.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, half afraid, half simply surprised, “Who are you?”

“Calm yourself,” the tallest said in a deep, hollow voice, “You and your child are in no danger from us.”

“We wish no harm to befall life,” was another’s softer reassurance.

“Who . . . who are you?”

“We may be termed protectors,” the first speaker replied.

“Preservers,” the second added.

“Healers,” said a third.

“Gatekeepers,” the smallest concluded.

“W-why are you here? What do you want?”

“There is a gulf we must cross.”

She was unsure which of them had answered. “Gulf?”

“A vast distance, yet no distance at all. We can no longer cross it alone.”

“But why . . . ?”

“Your child,” the tallest told her, “He can help us.”

“Help you? H-how? How can he? He’s just a child –”

Without any of them touching him, Tawny rolled onto his back. He wore no shirt, so the hateful black marks across his skin were clear for all to see.

“He is an anomaly, unique. The Gate within him is more powerful than any other in this world. It was caught in those lines and now cannot fade. That has made him a bridge. A bridge we can and must use.”

“I . . . I don’t understand. Why?”

The Gatekeepers moved closer. One of them held out an arm. Rose flinched away in shock. The black flesh had been torn away, the skin and muscle sliced and cut right down to the bone in some places. It looked as if something had been taking great bites out of it. “We can no longer travel on our own. We need a safe passage. He is the last one left.”

“Why . . . where to?”

“Another world.”

“Oh . . . but . . . why?”

“There is a threat to all things. The alchemists are merely the first to feel the symptoms. In time, every being will.”

“The alchemists?” Rose swallowed, thinking of Mr Armstrong as she had last seen him, pale and comatose, looking so much smaller, all his usual sparkle gone. “You mean what’s happened to them . . .”

“Is only the beginning.” They bowed their heads and the arm was withdrawn. “We must go to the other side, to lend what strength we have left to the efforts to prevent more harm being done. Only then may the injuries be reversed.”

The woman looked from one Gatekeeper to the next. It was not as if she could stop them, she realised. She was no barrier, she did _not want to be_ a barrier to their doing whatever they wished. Their presence alone was enough to stop her resisting. She _knew_ they meant no harm, would do no harm, could do no harm. If they had lifted her aside and told her to leave she would have done so without questioning. But they were allowing her to speak as though the choice was hers, to ask them whatever she wished. They were allowing her the dignity of being mother to her child.

“Will it . . . it won’t hurt him?”

“No.”

“Then . . . if you . . . need to . . .” She could say no more.

The transmutation circle on Tawny’s stomach blazed, first purple, then blue, then pure gold. The same light rose in a circle around them, sparking and writhing like a living thing. The white robes reflected the vibrant glow, until they seemed to become part of it. Soon it was impossible to tell what was light and what was Gatekeeper. Rose had to cover her eyes – it was unbearably bright. But she could not contain herself and splayed her fingers a little, just enough to see.

She caught a glimpse of an endless tunnel, teaming with streamers of the golden light. Shapes danced through it, indistinct, strange and familiar. She saw, fleetingly, faces she thought she knew, heard voices from the past, all a long way off.

Then the tunnel was gone and she was falling back into Tawny’s room, darkness closing over her mind.

 

* * *

 

Tawny woke to the sound of wind buffeting the city. He liked that sound, the rushing and roaring of something far, far bigger than he was. It had scared him once, before he had learned to listen to it properly. Now, he imagined it was a giant breathing, one as big as the desert that puffed and snorted just like one of the store-holders in the square. Sometimes, it was one of the nice ones, like Mr Cole. Others, it was angry, like Mr Prince. But you didn’t have to be afraid of it. Not unless you were really, really light. Then you’d get blown away and no one would ever see you again.

His mum was lying across his bed, like she’d just fallen there and not bothered to get up again. She’d been in his dreams last night. He scratched his nose. There had been other people as well. _Strange_ people. And that thing on his tummy, the one mum would never talk about, it’d . . . started fizzing. That had made him feel all tingly inside. Which had been nice . . . in a weird kind of way. And those people, they’d gone into the thing, gone _through_ it. And there had been something else, something really, really important that he couldn’t remember any more.

He wondered where the people had gone after that. He hoped they’d be OK.

But more importantly, he _really_ hoped mum wouldn’t mind him getting her up. He was hungry and she always put the jam out of reach so he couldn’t put it all on his bread. And he hated having to eat bread without jam.

Outside, the wind roared louder.

It sounded like it was trying to blow the whole world away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- It's not clear how Dante put the array on Rose's kid's belly: I'm assuming tattoo.  
> \- Tawny as a name is completely made up - I rather liked the sound of 'Tawny Thomas'.


	24. The Other Alchemist

Ed lost it.

He leapt to the only conclusion that made sense, exploding into a barely coherent snarl, jabbing his finger and jerking forward in his chair. His face when pale with fury and when he did manage to produce decipherable words, it was at a hiss. “ _Envy!_ ” he spat, breathing hard, “Bastard . . . how the hell can you still be . . . but . . . there was nothing left . . . it can't be . . .”

But what else? However much he cursed and shouted that it couldn’t be, there was no escaping the fact that he was staring at someone who had. His. Face. It may have been covered in half-healed burns, topped with hair that was barely fuzz and attached to a bandaged wrapped body in a wheelchair but it was, without a trace of doubt, _HIS FUCKING FACE_.

And Chambers was just standing there, not smiling, not anything. Like this was nothing big, like this was completely normal, the bastard. The Marquis was smirking enough for about three of them and the nurse – and hadn’t he met her somewhere before? – was gaping uncontrollably . . . and now he bothered to pay any attention, he realised that the fat man in tweed and the white haired woman looked shocked as well . . . and Mustang, obviously, looked just a bit surprised . . . but Chambers? Oh no. Mr Benedict _fucking_ Chambers was as calm and controlled as if he’d just opened the door for the afternoon tea.

“What the hell is _that_?” Ed continued to point accusingly at the . . . the . . . at _that_. “What the HELL is _THAT_?!”

Chambers tipped his chin slightly, which was probably his version of a condescending sigh. “I would be happy to explain, Mr Elric. However, I would appreciate it if I were not interrupted by your wide and occasionally inventive repertoire of obscenities.”

Ed shut his mouth with an audible clack.

“Thank you. Nurse Jameson, please come inside properly. I would not like our patient to be sitting in a draft.”

The fat man pulled himself together and rounded on the nurse, clearly intending to repeat Chamber’s instruction. She had already done as she was told, pushing the wheelchair inside so that the door could be closed. Her eyes never left Ed once. One of the Templars closed the door behind them. There was utter silence as everyone waited for Chambers to speak.

He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “During the last war, a number of notable academics resolved to continue teaching and researching in spite of the turmoil in Europe. They congregated in London under the oversight of the late Professor Donovan. Dr Graves here was part of the group, as was a man who went by the name of Professor Van Hohenheim, who would go on to become an advisor to the War Office. They took on several students, mostly those too young to be co-opted into the armed forces. One such student was a young man named Edward March.”

At this, the invalid stirred, losing the startled, confused look he had worn since Ed’s outburst. Jameson laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“He came to London to study chemistry and, by all reports, was most capable. Evidently he impressed Professor Hohenheim enough to warrant personal interest and significant financial assistance. I myself was aware of the group, if not directly involved, but I understand that Edward proved himself to be something of a prodigy. Had he continued his work, he would most likely have become as notable as he tutors. But then the war reached London.

“There was an air raid. He, like many others, was evacuated from the city. A damaged airship crashed on top of them. Most of them escaped but eyewitness reports describe Edward as appearing confused, disorientated even. He was evidently unable, for whatever reason, to avoid the impact.”

“Stop.” Ed closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He pressed his hand to his forehead. “He died. He . . . I . . . died. I was . . . we . . . _we_ died. My soul went back through the Gate and he died. That was . . . the end. _He died_. I know he did. I _felt it happen_. It happened to _me_. It can’t be him. _That_ can’t be him! It just fucking can’t!”

Chambers regarded him coolly. “You are speaking of things you do not understand, Mr Elric. Yes, you were able to traverse the Gate and occupy Edward’s body. Yes you were sent back. But that is only half the situation. Two ‘souls’, to use your crude terminology, are not meant to be present in the same body.

“When your soul was attracted into the most appropriate vessel, it had – if I may continue with my earlier analogy – a polarising effect upon the soul already present. Indeed, the effect was mutual. As a result, the Gates within each of you exchanged orientations – yours aligned itself to this side, his to the other. When the airship’s wreckage crushed Edward’s body, the two of you were drawn back into the reservoir – back into the Gate, if you will. Since yours was polarised as one from this world, you naturally flowed into the conduit and were, evidently, able to return home. Edward, however was repelled. Simply put, his had become the wrong kind of soul. He was turned away and so he returned to the only place he could: his body.”

“But that shouldn’t have meant –”

Chambers spoke over Ed as if he could not hear him. “If that had been all there was to it, he would probably have become a ghost, a spirit anchored to a corpse. But that was not all there was. Edward did not return alone.

“I was unaware as to the true nature of what he had become for a considerable amount of time. His body was recovered from the wreckage and he was pronounced dead. There was little doubt in the attending doctor’s mind about that. He had been burnt and crushed almost beyond recognition. Professor Hohenheim identified it for the authorities. By all accounts, he was most affected by his student’s death and mourned him as much as the youth’s family. Fortunately, Dr Graves was conducting a study of burn victims and obtained permission to perform an examination before the body was taken from the hospital. It was he who made a truly astonishing discovery. The burns had begun to heal.

“Since he knew me from Cambridge and was aware of my interest in so-called miraculous events, he contacted me immediately. I was already in London, curiously enough to discuss certain matters with Hohenheim. I’m sure Thomas was only trying to obtain a powerful backer for what he was certain would be the making of his career but I must nonetheless thank him for doing so.”

At this, Graves started spluttering. No one paid him any attention.

“I organised the substitution of another body and had Edward transferred to a private institute. Graves agreed to a joint project and, later, organised nursing care for our patient. My interest was sparked at once, as I’m sure you will understand. However, it was when I attempted to investigate Edward’s mind that it became true fascination. For while his brain had been violently damaged by the trauma, I was able to discern fragments. Another mind invading his, other thoughts not his own. Being unable to control himself. A vast gateway, suspended in limbo. A rush of alien knowledge. And, pervading all, an appalling darkness.

“I did not fully comprehend what I was seeing but it tallied remarkably with information I had gained prior to those events. Indeed, it acted as the catalyst for my education concerning certain fundamental matters. Initially, I made little progress, hampered as I was by possessing only incomplete accounts. This problem was solved when one of the beings you call Gatekeepers came to attempt to correct the ‘mistake’ that had saved Edward. And she provided me with everything I could ever need.

“I at last comprehended what had happened. When Edward’s soul had come before the Gate, one of the parasitical beings that exist within had latched on to him. In such a manner, it was able to escape confinement and was carried back to this world and into the body.” He paused again, glancing at Edward. Ed did as well. His . . . the other man still looked more vacant than anything else. “You are aware,” Chambers continued, “that the limbo creatures, once corporeal, sustains themselves by consuming 'souls'. In your world, it is possible to provide those energies neatly packaged as food. Here, that is not an option. It had to be satisfied with the only source of sustenance available. It began to feed on Edward. But given both its relative weakness and the need to preserve such a small quantity, it did so only very slowly. It used what power it gleaned to repair the body, taking a little at a time as and when required. The process was so slow that it was less consumption and more a gradual absorption. At present, it is difficult to know where the soul ends and the faux spirit begins.”

“A homunculus,” Ed grated, “Are you telling me that that thing is a _homunculus_?”

“Of a kind.”

“Then your even more deluded than I thought. Homunculi can’t be alchemists.”

“Incorrect, as you well know. Singularly, no. But if even the slightest fragment of humanity is present within them, it is possible. The link to the Gate within every one of us is not some quantifiable object; it is infused in every part of our physical and metaphysical beings. So long as part of who Edward used to be remains, so long as the Hunger does not consume him completely, he retains the use of his Gate. The Gate you conveniently made capable of powering alchemic reactions.”

Ed tried to think of something to say. For once in his life, nothing happened. His brain was racing, crashing about in heaps of the past, kicking up Envy, Wrath, London, the airship, the pain of being crushed to death, the radiance of the Gate, the creatures within trying to tear him apart . . . Mustang wasn’t being any help, just alternating between staring at him and staring at . . . at the . . . that . . . at _Edward_.

Who was staring at _him_. Staring with wide eyes that managed to be empty and infinitely inquisitive at the same time. Ed’s stomach turned. The . . . thing opposite him was a . . . a _monstrosity_ , a warped copy, a distorted reflection, something that wasn’t even a homunculus but in between, a corpse with aspirations of being a zombie, a fucking _mistake_.

That did it.

“You show me . . . that . . .” He struggled to find an adjective bad enough. “ _That_ , and you expect me to help you? You expect me to do anything that you want after this? He’s . . . _it’s_ a . . . It should be dead. It should have been destroyed!”

Chambers threaded his fingers together. “He, Mr Elric, is nothing more or less than an alchemist. And I have every confidence that you will do exactly as I wish. If, however, I am mistaken, I am sure I will be able to convince your brother to take your place.”

He let that sink in, crossing to stand beside Edward. Ed bit his lip against the nasty, creeping suspicion of how Al would react if Chambers made his threats to him. His brother wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t good at bluffing with people like the Templars, people who couldn’t be sweet talked or charmed.

But Chambers wasn’t finished. “I doubt I will have to. As you are aware, the fabric of the Gate has been impaired. That will only get worse. It is within my power to accelerate the destruction to the point beyond which repair will be impossible. And then, Mr Elric, you will be faced with a choice between doing as I request or standing back and watching everything go to nothing.”

The thing that had been Edward March made a soft mewing sound and smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And once more, I kind of make things up with regards to how the Gate works. Because: why not?  
> \- 'March' as a surname for London!Ed is to the best of my knowledge my own invention.  
> \- I'm working on the assumption that London!Ed is not actually related to Alfons given their very different colouring. Although it's possible London!Ed's father did some . . . *ahem* . . . travelling in Europe.


	25. No Choice

Over the course of her career, Hawkeye had had relatively few opportunities to see the inside of a cell. She largely eschewed the kinds of off-duty activities that generally landed her fellow soldiers in the rattle and for all the unpleasant places she had spent time, she had rarely been locked in.

So it was not with any particular point of comparison that she determined that the heavy metal door and thick stone walls would make for a very effective prison. The room had the feel of being converted from some other use: the door fittings were far newer than the bricks that held them, the bunks had been hastily converted from shelves, there was no drainage and the bucket in the corner was clearly an afterthought. None of that, however, offered any obvious opportunities for escape.

Falconer paced the length of the cramped room, her arms folded across her chest. Her mouth was pressed in a tight line, her cheeks drawn. Hawkeye watched her through half-closed eyes, not saying anything at first. It was hard to know what _to_ say. Whatever their similarities, she could not read the other woman's mind. She could not tell if Falconer was simply gathering her thoughts or was in danger of cracking under the pressure of the situation.

“What did he do to you?” Hawkeye asked eventually, careful to keep her voice neutral, “This man – L'enfer. What did he do?”

Falconer stiffened, her back going rigid. For a long while, she did not answer. Then: “Not what you are thinking. He never once laid a hand on me, nor allowed anyone else to. That would have been too crude. And it does not suit his vanity to be crude. It was . . .” She lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. “He was always just behind me, always at my shoulder. A shadow. He would stare at me for hours saying nothing, or brush past with a smile, or make sure I saw some small act of barbarity by his men – anything that might provoke me. Have you ever . . . have you ever lived with someone constantly testing you? Where every gesture is calculated to provoke and every word is a challenge? In hindsight I suppose it's certain he knew why I was there. And he used that as a game. A diversion. I'd say like a cat toying with a mouse but dumb animals aren't that cruel.”

Her hands were curled into fists, pressed into the folds of her clothes as if she were trying to hide the reaction. Presumably that was exactly what she was doing. Hawkeye considered her. Here was a spy, a woman trained to work behind enemy lines and infiltrate into their ranks. Only it seemed that those ranks had known she was coming and rather than casting her out or killing her, they had allowed her in and watched for what she would do. Small wonder their attention had caused her such distress. And on top of that, to have this L'enfer person constantly, deliberately needling away at her cover . . . Falconer was right. It was a peculiarly cruel thing to have done.

“He loves to be in control,” the Englishwoman said in a very small voice, “It is the one thing he relishes above all else. The more totally, the better. I think he would have driven me mad if he could have, just to watch me crack.”

“Elizabeth.” Hawkeye met her eye and held her gaze. “If we are to get out of here, I need your help.”

“I . . . I am not sure can face him again. I know what he is capable of. I . . .”

“And I know what you are capable of.” A slight exaggeration. But hopefully the kernel of truth within would hold. “Whatever tricks he used on you, you are stronger then them. Besides. This time there are two of us.”

Falconer's face said that this was not as reassuring as Hawkeye hoped it sounded.

She considered saying that there was no such thing as an impossible situation. After all, she did not believe there was. Working effective covert ops during the Eastern Rebellion had been ‘impossible’. Getting the Flame Alchemist organised had been ‘impossible’. Getting a twelve year old accepted into the State Alchemist programme had been ‘impossible’. Defeating the aerial attack on Central has been ‘impossible’. Ultimately, there was a solution to everything, even if it was not a very pleasant one.

But all that was the opinion of Riza Hawkeye, not Elizabeth Falconer. Perhaps this other her, this other, alien woman really could not do what was needed. Perhaps she would give up and be defeated by the cheap psychological torture she had been subjected to.

No. Hawkeye was not prepared to allow that. “Listen,” she began, letting some heat into her voice.

The door clicked, the lock drawing back. Automatically, she got to her feet, deeply unwilling to have whoever it was looking down on her.

A Templar walked in. To her shame, she was caught off guard by his appearance. The single, astonished syllable escaped before her common sense could stop it. “ _Sir_?”

He smiled and any possibility of his being Roy Mustang miraculously healed evaporated. “Well, that’s a good start. You, I take it, are Miss Falconer’s counterpart. She never greets me so willingly. Do you, Elizabeth?”

Falconer was frozen in place, staring, mute. L'enfer – for who else could it be? – glided towards her, reaching out and letting a gloved finger hover under her chin. She flinched away, her head jerking back, mouth twisting in revulsion. “Nothing to say?” he whispered, “How rude of you. And I have missed you so.”

He whirled and placed his hand on Hawkeye’s cheek. She stayed absolutely still, giving no reaction even when he stroked his thumb across the skin under her eye.

“You aren’t afraid of me, are you? Well, well. Perhaps if you tell me where Elric's brother has got to, I shall allow your fearlessness to remain intact.”

Hawkeye said nothing.

The Marquis smiled. “No? How wonderful. I only regret that I will not be able to investigate the extent of your bravery immediately. Great things are afoot and I fear the two of you are too pleasant a distraction to waste in hasty, stolen moments. But no loss. There will be time enough later.”

Finally taking his hand away, he gave a courtly bow. “Until then, ladies: make yourselves comfortable. If you are good, I may even send down some better clothes for you to wear.” With that, he turned and left, the guard shutting the door behind him.

Falconer sank slowly on to the opposite bench, shuddering. Hawkeye simply frowned at the door and decided that there was something fundamentally wrong with a world where a man like that could walk around with a face he in no way deserved.

 

* * *

 

Ivan lay back on the hard bunk and stared at the roof. Nobody came in to gloat over his capture and with no one to share his cell, he was left alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes.

After a while, he began to snore.

 

* * *

 

Al scratched his head, uncomfortably aware of how long they had been walking without finding access back to the surface. He felt a twinge of longing for a body that could break through solid stone and was never bothered by hunger, aching muscles or claustrophobia.

They had come across numerous side tunnels branching off the main passageway, all on their right. These mostly seemed to lead into another tunnel going parallel to the first. There seemed to be little reasoning behind the intersections, which happened at odd, irregular intervals and went off at wildly different angles. Sometimes the pipes would branch and follow the junctions. Sometimes they would not. And at no point was there any evidence of an exit.

“Perhaps they sealed up the other entrance for some reason,” Noah suggested.

“Wouldn't we have seen the evidence of that? And why do it anyway? What's the point of a load of tunnels that don't go anywhere?” Al squinted at the pipes, then reached up to touch one of them. It was icy cold. He chewed his lip. There was something . . .

“Would it help if we followed the inner tunnel? We could be missing other passages by sticking to the outside.”

“Yeah. OK.” He shook his head to clear it. The nagging suspicion at the back of his mind was just that: a suspicion. He needed more evidence. “Let's do that.”

She smiled at him and took the lamp, leading the way into the nearest junction.

 

* * *

 

Hands shaking, Helen accepted the glass of brandy Anna held out for her. The older nurse promptly poured herself a similar measure and slowly collapsed into the other chair. She sipped at her drink. Helen did not.

“These people are quite mad,” Anna declared, “Quite, quite mad.”

Helen nodded, clutching her glass until her fingers went bone white. “What do we do?” she asked hollowly.

“What can we do? I cannot see us simply walking out of this dreadful place and going home, can you?” Another sip of brandy and a resolved expression came upon Anna's face. “No, my dear, we must persevere and pray that we will escape unscathed. I can see no other practical course of action.”

Helen nodded again. Then spoke, barely able to force the words out. “But what about Edward?”

Anna sucked air in through her teeth, hesitating. “They clearly need him for something . . . I don't think they intend to harm him.” Helen looked anything but reassured. She tried to think of something more but everything she came up with felt trite and condescending. So instead, she reached out and patted Helen’s hand. “We must carry on. There is nothing else we –”

She broke off as the door flew open and Dr Graves stumbled in. Blearily realising that the room was occupied, he lurched towards the table. “Simons, Jameson . . . is that brandy, there?”

“It is, doctor,” Anna agreed. Pointedly ignoring the sharp whiff on his breath, she poured him a small dose.

“Thank you,” he huffed gratefully. He hovered awkwardly next to them, clearly at a loss when neither of them offered him their chair. “I say,” he said, “This is a rum business, eh? I just left Chambers chatting with Edward. Or as much as you can call that a chat. About this Elric fellow, as it happens. Didn’t understand most of it.” He fumbled with his glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp. “Well. Have to get along. Sure Chambers will need you to shift Edward in a bit.”

Swaying as he walked, almost forgetting to put the glass down, he departed.

Anna sniffed disdainfully. “At least we know how _he_ intends to cope with all this.”

 

* * *

 

The Marquis strode through the corridors of the Institute, Solomon at his side. He was in a good mood. “I think I am going to enjoy this evening,” he confided, “if only for the novelty of the situation. Perhaps we should invite my twin along as well. I think he might appreciate the exercise . . .”

He trailed off as he noticed Issacher and Daniel standing up ahead. They were clearly arguing, although very quietly.

“So yah were back there, were yah?” the glass eyed Templar drawled sarcastically, “Bravely guardin' the empty road?”

Issacher bristled. “I did as I was ordered,” he growled.

“Funny how easily you do that – thought you were supposed ta be in charge a' that little expedition?”

“Solomon outranks me!”

“Doesn't trust ya ta get the job done, y'mean.”

“I am perfectly capable of –!”

“Gentlemen, please,” the Marquis intruded smoothly, “This bickering does not suit you.”

“Sair,” Daniel acknowledged, grinning.

“Sir,” said Issacher, far more stiffly.

L’enfer laid a hand on the hilt of his sabre and smirked at them. “Everything has ended for the best, let us not quibble over who was responsible.”

“Sure.” Daniel tipped an invisible hat, his good eye darting a knowing look at Issacher, “Bet you're happy with the prizes, boss.”

“They certainly offer entertaining possibilities.”

“What about the gypsy?” Issacher asked, returning Daniel's look venomously, “Do you need him questioned, sir?”

“I have no real interest in him. Let him stay where he is for now.”

“Of – course, sir.” The gangling Templar's disappointment was clear.

“Don't worry!” L'enfer slapped him on the shoulder. “I'm sure to ask you to shoot him later –”

“Sir!” As he came bolting down the passage, Cain’s face was flushed and panicked. He was clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest, apparently afraid someone was going to try to mug him for them. Clattering to a stop in from of them, he snapped a terrified salute. The Marquis’s gaze swept over him lazily. “Is something the matter, Cain?”

“M-mr Chambers, sir. He says he wants to start immediately!”

Daniel jerked in surprise. “Ah thought he was waitin’ until we had the other Elric kid?”

“So did I,” the Marquis replied cooly, “But if Mr Chambers has changed his mind, we must act accordingly. Cain – I want the gates closed and locked, the guard around the boundary doubled and as of now, everyone non-essential is restricted to their rooms. You two, go with him. Make sure he does his job properly. Solomon, with me.”

The lower ranking Templars hurried away. Solomon turned to L’enfer, impassive. “So,” he said slowly, “We finally see if we’ve been wasting our time.”

“We haven’t.” The Marquis scowled at the floor. “I’ve seen what he can do. What he’s capable of. We haven’t been wasting our time.”

“Even so.”

“Do you see any choice?”

“He’s still human. We don’t have to do this.”

The Marquis laughed. “Yes we do. Of course we do. The chance that he can do everything he says he can . . . the chance to be able to turn lead into gold, dust into diamonds and more besides . . . it’s too a pretty prize.”

“Too pretty to be true. I have said this all along.” A new note of something that was almost urgency entered the big man's words. “I know you think he has us under his thumb but one bullet and he need never bother us again. This . . . magic cannot end well.”

Laughing, the Marquis brushed dust from his sleeve. “Your continued paranoia is delightful, my friend. Truly. But we have started this. I intend to see it through. Now come. Let us go and see why Mr Chambers is suddenly so eager to be hasty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sorry for the late update - I was busy yesterday and didn't finish editing the chapter in time.


	26. Reactants

Mustang fixed his eye on the wall in front of him and kept it there, fighting any urge to look elsewhere. Under other circumstances, this would have been the most boring activity imaginable. But when there was nothing else to do and ultimately –

He really did not want to see Ed’s face.

Fullmetal had not said a word since they have been dumped back in the cell. Not since Chambers had delivered his ultimatum, in fact. Mustang could only imagine what was going through Fullmetal’s head. He knew what it was like to make decisions that affected the future of an entire country. But that was still a hundred steps below being the one who had to decide . . . well, the fate of the universe seemed about the right description.

He tried to picture what it would mean for everything to collapse into nothing. It was impossible. How could you even begin to grasp something of that magnitude? The only thing that came to mind was the unreasoning, unfathomable fear that he would never see anyone he knew every again, never be able to say or do all the things he had always meant or wanted to. That and the faces of all those who would be waiting for him if he somehow ended up in one of the afterlives he did not believe in.

Thrusting that aside, he tried to work out how they were going to escape.

And immediately wished that he had a more optimistic nature.

 

* * *

 

Chambers did not turn around when the Marquis came in. He was too busy speaking quietly and precisely to the huddled figure in the wheelchair. His face, turned side on to the door, was no more alive with excitement and impatience than usual. In fact, the signs of a man who was hastening an attack on the gates of heaven were noticeable only by their absence.

“Mr Chambers: might I have a moment of your precious time?”

The question was ignored. The Patient gave a nod and a mewl. “Good, Edward, good,” Chambers told him, “Now. Show me.” A raw hand extended, landing palm down on the tabletop. There was the barest, briefest flash of light and a perfectly spherical cloud of dust rose into the air. It quickly dissipated but Edward seemed incredibly pleased with himself. “Very good.” Chambers, of course, seemed totally indifferent.

The drab man finally deigned to pay attention to the Marquis. “I take it you have some complaint about the sudden acceleration of our work.”

“Very perceptive of you. Why?”

“If you mean, why the acceleration, it is quite simple. The forces that oppose us have gained unexpected assistance. They may be able to breach the defences that have so far prevented their direct interference.”

“I see.” L’enfer’s tone was neutral. “And what happens if they succeed?”

Chambers looked at him levelly. “You recall the incident at the hospital?”

“Ah.”

“Precisely. I was barely able to contain a single entity. More would be . . . inconvenient. Hence the need to advance faster than I originally intended.”

The Marquis accepted the answer. His memory had jumped back to a dim room and something horribly bright pressing down on the insides of his mind. He shook himself out of the stupor quickly. “Very well. I shall make sure everything is prepared. Do you want Elric moved to the inner room?”

“Not yet.” Chambers half-turned back to Edward. “An hour. He will need his false arm back first. Don’t bother with the leg. Make sure Lazarus has put it back together precisely as he found it. I don’t want to be delayed by a mechanical failure.”

“I’ll see to that at once.”

“Good. Oh.” He hesitated once more before going back to his charge. “Please send someone to check the tunnels.

L’enfer frowned. “None of the alarms have gone off.”

“I am aware of that. Please check anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Al rattled the bars, or tried to. They were solid, running floor to ceiling, completely blocking the way. He glared at them for about fifteen seconds and then kicked them, hard. “Ow!”

Noah, who was checking the bars on the next opening, came over and laid a hand on his arm. “There’s no way through,” she said, matter-of-factly, “We should carry on round and try somewhere else.

Not really listening, Al attempted to wedge his staff between and across the barrier, trying to get purchase so that he might be able to force the bars from their settings.

Noah’s grip tightened. “You’ll break your staff before the bars come loose.”

He knew she was right but . . . _damnit_! This was progress at last. You didn’t block off a tunnel that didn’t lead anywhere. This was a way in, a chance to get somewhere, a step closer to Ed and . . . and they couldn’t damn well take it! He kicked out again, frustration boiling over.

“Al!” A cool, tingling sensation spread from Noah’s touch, shooting up his arm and into his spine. He jerked away as she let go, just as shocked as he was. “I’m sorry!” she blurted, “I didn’t mean to –”

“What was _that_?” The question came out too sharply and he instantly regretted it. “Sorry! I mean – what did you just do?”

She blushed furiously. “I don’t know. It’s happened before . . . when I’ve been reading people . . . suddenly everything becomes much clearer and they react like I’m burning them . . .”

“It didn’t. It wasn't burning. It was cold. Why – why isn't it like that all the time? I've never felt you before.”

“I don't know. I – I think it's because I'm pressing too hard or trying to do something other than just read – I don't know why that would make a difference but . . .”

Feeling himself calm down, Al pushed his fingers into his fringe. “O . . . kay. That . . . I suppose that makes sense.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Don't be.” He squeezed her hand for a second. “It's fine. And I'm acting like Ed and getting mad at a load of ironwork. You're right. We should keep going. It's just . . .”

“So close?”

“Yeah.” He sighed and took a step back, sizing up the bars one last time. Stupid, thick, annoyingly solid bars that –

“Oh!”

“What is it?”

“Those bars – the pipes –” He pointed, probably far more dramatically than he needed to.

“Well . . . I see them but . . . oh.”

Al reached up, running his hand up one of the bars and along the thing strip of metal welded to it at the top of the arch. “Why would you need to connect this –” His fingers brushed where the strip bent away from the wall. “– to the pipes?”

“The rail.” Noah brushed the dust from the bar's roots in the floor. And yes, there was another rail, one that branched off the one running down the centre of the tunnel and fed into the same bar the strip was attached to. “It's . . . all connected.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Suspicion crystallised into certainty. “Come on!” Practically at a run, he hared off back to where the inner tunnel joined the outer. Noah caught up with him at the junction, in time to see him drop to his knees and brush frantically at the floor. “Look,” he called excitedly.

The rails in the two tunnels were linked by another crossing between the two. Rings of stone had been painstakingly fitted around the points at which they met and chiselled into each were a set of complex little symbols that had no right to be under a field in France.

Noah recognised them too. “That’s . . .”

“Alchemy,” he finished, “So these metal lines . . . and . . .”

They looked up. “The pipes.”

“Yeah.” Al took a deep breath. “They're part of it – they're an array! These tunnels . . . they're a transmutation circle!”

 

* * *

 

With a sight of satisfaction, Lazarus manipulated the mechanical fingers. They moved smoothly, clicking softly. “I just have to reattach the outer casing . . .” he informed Solomon, “And then – it should be ready.”

“Good.” The big man checked his watch. “Should the boy be brought here?”

“It would be best . . . I am not entirely certain how the attachment process works – I should like my equipment to hand.”

Solomon grunted and made to leave.

“Sir . . . ?” Lazarus called. His eyes were eager. “The leg . . . if we are not to attach it . . . would it be acceptable for me to continue dismantling it?”

He got a shrug for an answer. “I haven’t been told you can’t.”

Lazarus shot him a short, tight smile of pure glee. “Oh . . . excellent.”

 

* * *

 

The weight of the wheelchair was a comfort in Helen’s hands, a solid, familiar point in a world gone mad. She just wished she could be pushing it in the opposite direction and as fast as possible. The longing to get away from the madhouse – and more importantly, to get Edward away from it – was growing to be unbearable. Especially since there was nothing she could do about it.

“This way, Jameson, quick as you like.” Dr Grave’s words were slurring slightly. A burning resentment towards the man who had brought them all here kept her from feeling any sympathy for his condition. If he couldn’t bear the strain of the place without turning to drink, he should have never have come. At his side, Anna huffed. He did not notice. Helen doubted he noticed very much of what was going on.

They slowed to manoeuvre the chair down a flight of steps. Edward watched them all silently, attentively following their progress. Sometimes his neck would twist like an owl’s with the effort of keeping someone in view. He seemed fascinated by everything that changed around him, determined not to miss a second of it all. The procession passed into a whitewashed passageway and then into a square anteroom of some kind. At the far end stood a heavy wooden door, which swung open to reveal the uninteresting form of Mr Chambers.

His dull gaze settled on Edward. “Good. We will have to leave the wheelchair here. Please carry him inside.”

The Marquis' men who had escorted them down exchanged glances. One of them scooped Edward up as though he weighed nothing at all. His face split in a grin at the sudden elevation.

Helen looked from him to the grey spectre in the doorway and shook.

 

* * *

 

The bunk was not meant to be comfortable. After so long lying flat on his back on top of it, his body was protesting very loudly indeed. He was ignoring it, not so much from stubbornness as a complete disinterest. His attention was elsewhere, in futures that could be, in possibilities that were looming ahead, horrendously possible.

 

Al . . .

That thought hung over the rest, a guillotine ready to fall at any moment. It was the one thing Chambers could hold against him and be absolutely certain that it would work. The knowledge that even if he did not do what the man wanted, his brother would. Not that being able to destroy everything was an insignificant advantage. It just paled in comparison.

He knew that Chambers meant every word he had said. The idea of helping him and that . . . _thing_ made him sick in the stomach, but there was no way around it. Ed was going to have to do what he was told. He was going to have to help a lunatic break in his mad attempt to break the laws of existence.

Because that was the only way he was going to get close enough to fight back.

He had not told the General what he was planning. There was no way to do that without alerting the people listening in on them and he didn't want to get Mustang involved anyway. The wounds the Marquis had inflicted were still harsh against his feverishly pale skin. He was in no fit state to help Ed take on an army.

Not that was what he intended to do. He wouldn't need to. Chambers wanted him to activate a transmutation, some sort of array. And when he did . . .

Ed had been caught in surprisingly few alchemic backlashes given how frequently he attempted untested reactions. Something to do with the knowledge the Gate had granted, he assumed. But he sure as hell knew how to make them happen. Granted, deliberately doing so while you were directly involved in the process was a flashy way of committing suicide. But that was a small price to pay to ensure that the threat to Al, the world, everything, was ended for good. One equation out of balance, one surge of power too much and it would all be over.

When they came to take him away, he did not even offer a token resistance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dramatic musical cues sold separately.


	27. Inherent Instabilities

The agony of auto-mail reattachment was slowly giving way to a dull, icy throb, somewhere on the scale between a broken tooth and a stubbed toe. It might have got better quicker if it weren't for the hands under his arms, dragging him off wherever it was they were dragging him off to. Ed felt irrationally proud when he managed to resist the urge to ask them why the hell they couldn’t be bothered to get him a wheelchair.

He was not about to risk the chance that they would get him one. Some indignities were worse than others.

The auto-mail itself felt wrong. Someone had been messing with it, probably that 'doctor' who'd leered down at him as he closed the catches. The jointing was too tight around the elbow and Ed could have sworn that something started grinding the first time he flexed his fingers. Admittedly, the arm had been tuned by guesswork for longer than was probably good for it but at least he and Al had done that according to how ITS OWNER thought it should feel –

A set of steps provided the Templars with ample opportunity to try shaking his head off his neck. He snarled at them, provoking an especially jarring wobble as they got to the bottom.

“Careful with him,” someone purred, “We don’t want him damaged prematurely.”

The Marquis and his hulking sidekick appeared in their path. Ed grimaced. “You know what’d look good with that sword?” he ground, “An eye-patch. How about I rip your eye out so you can see what I mean?”

A languid smirk deflected the suggestion. “Having seen the effect already, I think I will pass on that kind offer. Take him in.”

A clutch of nervous faces waited for them in the anteroom. The nurses and the fat Englishman were huddled on chairs in the corner, all of them looking like they wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else. Two more Templars were waiting with them. Ed recognised neither but took an instant, particular dislike to the stringy blonde man leaning against the wall. He bore a vague resemblance to Havoc, if you took out all the charm, looks and nicotine stains.

“Sair.” He tossed the Marquis a salute. “Perimeter secured and Issacher’s takin’ a squad down inta the tunnels. Looks like one a tha main alarms failed.”

“At least Cain finally noticed we had a problem. Thank you, Daniel. I assume you want to stay for the show?”

“Ah wouldn’t mind, sair.”

“Then unless you are needed elsewhere, you may stay.”

The Marquis raised a gloved fist and beat on the big wooden door. It opened at once. Chambers looked past him, straight at Ed. “Bring him inside immediately, if you please.”

The room was big and circular, with gated openings at regular intervals around the wall. The ceiling was high enough and the lighting poor enough that it was hard to tell what was up there. The bare stone floor was inlaid with a pattern in metal, a vast circle filled with lines and curves, all building into a horrendously complicated network. More lines radiated out through the openings, disappearing into the dark

Although he only did so in the confines of his thoughts, Ed had to admit that it was one of the most impressively complex arrays he had ever seen. There was no way he would be able to work out what every part of it was supposed to do with just a few glances. That was a disconcertingly new experience for him. Normally, he had been able to discern the basics of any array on sight, even if the fine detail eluded him. This . . . this was too big, with far too much fine detail. It was the sort of array he would never, ever attempt to activate without spending a week going over every inch.

At Chambers’ direction they dropped him on the edge of the circle. Opposite, the Thing with his face knelt on a cushion, watching him with a sort of bleary fascination. The Templars left quickly, clearly unnerved by the place. The door slammed after them.

There was a brief moment of quiet. Chambers walked around the room, his shoes clicking on the stones. Ed pushed himself into a more comfortable position. 'Edward' shifted too, fidgeting a little, playing with his hands.

“What now, _Benedict_?” Ed hissed.

“Now we begin, Mr Elric,” Chambers replied simply.

“And what do you expect me to do, exactly?”

“Edward and yourself will activate the array. I will control it.”

“Huh. You expect me to activate _that_? Without knowing what it does? I know you’re crazy but _please_ . . . ”

“Is there a problem?”

“Only that you’re expecting me to make it work when I don’t have a frickin’ clue what it does.”

“You do not need one to activate it.”

Without another word, he moved to the centre of the pattern. Ed snorted. “Oh, yeah, great place to stand.” He switched his attention to the Thing. It looked back at him with wide, entranced eyes. “I hope _you_ frickin’ well know what you’re doing,” Ed snapped.

“I assure you he does. It is time, Mr Elric. No more delays.”

Ed considered trying to come up with a lot more and increasingly spiteful delays, but decided that he was just putting off the inevitable. He had once been told that people who resigned themselves to death were filled with a sense of peace. From experience, if that were true, peace felt like pain and a deadening numbness, in which case everyone was welcome to it. He held his hands a little way apart, focusing. Not on doing what Chambers was ever so politely ordering but on blowing a massive hole in his array just as his pet freak show powered it up. He imagined that being atomised would hurt less than a zeppelin to the head or a spike through the chest.

As he clapped, he saw Edward copy him, which was extremely creepy. Then his hands hit the circle and it didn't matter any more.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he had worked out what they were caught in, Al had set off at a sprint. It was all Noah could do to keep up. They passed three junctions, each one with more joined rails and alchemic symbols. Al frowned more deeply after each, his attempts to work out what the array was for becoming ever more panicked.

“This doesn’t make sense!” he protested as they left the third cross tunnel behind, “These should be . . . and those . . . no, this isn't right!”

“What do you mean?” she demanded breathlessly.

“You’ve seen all those components in our heads, right? So what have they got in common?”

“They’re . . .” She fished around in years of borrowed memories. “They’re all directional constraints . . . is that right?”

“Yes – but – look at them! They’re . . . they’re not where . . . they should be!”

“I don’t see . . .”

“They’re . . . meant to be . . . inside the lines . . . not around them . . . like that!”

They clattered to a stop, breathing hard. Al braced himself with his staff and pointed up. “And that . . . double layered arrays are incredibly powerful . . . you don’t try them if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know that,” Noah reminded him. She was about to go on but a sound in the distance made her stop. “What was that?”

“It sounded like . . .” Realising what he was about to say, Al stumbled over the word. “Like a clap.”

Light burst from the lines at their feet, vivid blue and white, arcs of energy jumping up from the metal lines. Driven by a terrified reflex, Noah crashed into Al, driving him towards the outside of the tunnel. He yelled, the lightning chasing his feet, lashing at his legs. They collided with the wall and slid down it, holding onto each other, frantically trying to get clear of the reaction.

 

* * *

 

Ed roared.

His hands were welded to the array. The energy he released flowed into it without bothering to do what he had intended it to. Nothing disintegrated, nothing exploded. He was paralysed, held there, a sickening, blood-draining sensation spreading through his body. Across from him, on the other side of the light show, he could just see Edward locked in the same state, silently transfixed, face screwed up, eyes tight shut.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

Chambers, secure and untouched at the heart of the light, flicked him a disinterested glance. “Simply put, Mr Elric,” he explained as if they were still sitting in his office, “this is a trap. I need your alchemy, not your attempts at self-destruction.”

“WHAT –”

“This array catches your Gates within it and holds them open, accumulating the power I will require. It is not perfect – inherent instabilities necessitate the use of two alchemists – but it is sufficient for my needs.”

Speech failed Ed and roared again, trying to physically rip his hands free but with no success.

The light grew brighter and brighter, shining from the roof as well as the floor. The openings in the walls flooded with incandescence. A protesting grumble came from the room around them, a vibration passing through the earth itself. Brighter still, the glow began to change colour, flickering different hues, purple and yellow and red and orange. The draining sensation settled in Ed’s stomach. Spots of darkness filled his vision. He recognised the prelude to unconsciousness, his head light as air, while the rest of him could felt like cast lead.

Then, without warning, he was free.

He overbalanced, falling back, unable to stop. The light from the lower array rushed up to meet that from the one on the ceiling, waves of brilliance meeting with a silent crash. A fully-grown tremor shook everything, rattling Ed’s teeth in his skull as his head bounced off the floor. Through it all, Chambers stood untouched, resolutely still at the eye of the storm.

Only now did he move, raising his arms, palms outwards. Electric fire blazed around him, flashing across his glasses. Gradually, it coalesced in the air above his fingertips, becoming a single, solid unbroken ring, swimming with colour.

Another, stronger tremor sent mortar showering from the walls. Ed struggled to move, to fight, to do _something_. He could not. His body moved only feebly. He might as well have been tied to the floor. Thrashing weakly about, he caught a glimpse of Edward. The homunculus-man was not resisting the force keeping it down. Its eyes were no longer empty: they were filled with stark, unreasoning terror.

Unhurriedly, Chambers’ hands swept down. They met before his waist, his arms perfectly straight.

Everything trembled.

The colours in the circle of light shifted faster and faster, until they had blurred into a golden mass. Something inside Ed, something indefinable, wrenched sickeningly. He gasped, not because it hurt but because it was deeply, basically, fundamentally _wrong_. The sound from Chamber’s clap finally escaped, booming out as deafening thunder.

The circle exploded.

Blackness rushed in to fill the gap it left in the universe, blackness that had no form, that could have no form, a perfect emptiness where the world, quite simply, was not. With it came complete silence. More than silence. A dreadful, oppressive hush that could never be broken, an emptiness without end. No air to stir, no ground to shift, no hot, no cold, nothing.

Nothing but the Gate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Don't you love it when a plan comes together?  
> \- I'm finding it's the Noah and Al sections I needed to rewrite the most, funnily enough. Not for any great technical reasons, I think I just have a better idea how to handle their part of the plot now.


	28. Storming the Gates

It was not the Gate Ed remembered.

It was the wrong colour, white on a void like a starless night seen through coal glasses. The figures struggling up its pillars were different somehow too, though he would have been hard pressed to say why. And great eye engraved on the door was tight shut, no rays of comprehension shining out.

But none of that meant that _this_ Gate did not loom just as massively or that the sight of it did not fill him with a sense of raw helplessness. And like the Gate he knew, it was always nearby, there when you turned around, no matter how strongly you wished it wasn’t. He stared up at it from the floor that was not there until the horror of it forced him to turn away.

At first, he thought he was alone. But then he saw the ragged shape slumped a few yards away. Numbly, he crawled his way over. The homunculus-man was curled up on its side, shivering. Ed hesitated, a surge of distaste holding him back. Then practicality reasserted itself and he gripped the Thing’s arm, tugging hard. “Hey. _Hey!_ Look at me.”

Obediently, it unfolded a little, blinking.

Ed swallowed, forcing back the bile. “Do you know where we are?”

It nodded quickly and fearfully, making a gasping noise that might have been ‘yes’.

“Do you know what that means?”

The next noise was negative, the head bobbing sideways.

“It means that there’s only one definite way outta here.” Ed jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “When _that_ opens . . .”

He stopped. Exactly. When the Gate opened, there would be a way out of the void. There would be a way out of the void and back into the world he called home. A way back to Amestris, to Risenbool, to Aunt Pinako, to Winry . . . to everything that he had been shut away from since that day in the city below Central. A way _home_.

For a price. His left hand went to his right shoulder. You had to pay the toll to pass through the Gate. If you weren’t careful, you paid with everything. And this time, that would mean paying with Al. With Hawkeye. With the Bastard General.

“But . . . that isn’t a good way out,” he continued eventually, “so we need another one.”

'Edward' looked at him blankly.

He gritted his teeth. “Just . . . stay there. I might need your alchemy.”

Dragging himself round to face the Gate, he rubbed his lip with real knuckles. Those doors were going to open. They always did. They were going to open and the limbo children inside were going to reach out to try and take whatever they could find. And based on past experience, there would be no way they could fight back.

“Great.” He flexed his hands. He had never tried alchemy in the ‘in between’. In a place where there was no matter to transmute, where he usually only ended up when half – or completely – dead or on the wrong end of a reaction, it had never even occurred to him. But supposing the energy alone was enough . . . supposing it could disrupt whatever was keeping him there and kick him back into –

The Gate opened. The great doors began to swing inwards – another difference – opening on broiling, inky darkness. The purple eyes snapped into being, staring madly out at the things beyond. As if waking up, Ed suddenly saw the cracks that spider-webbed across the edifice, saw how decayed the figures were, little more than skeletons clinging to a crumbling ruin. The raw, hungry reality of the black Gate was not shared by the white. It had been wounded. It was dying.

All at once, Chambers was there.

He appeared like a light bulb snapped on. The pure gold circle still hung over him, an obscene halo casting out shards of radiance to pierce the doors. The tendrils streamed and flowed around them, a thousand serpents enfolding their prey. The light heaved.

Chambers’ power flung the doors back and out so that they crashed into the frame, smashing the blocks apart. The skeletons opened their mouths to scream as their bodies were rent into pieces, crushed beneath the toppling masonry. The whole lot lurched sickeningly –

There was no sound as the Gate fell.

‘Sound’ was simply the wrong word for what you heard when the universe broke.

 

* * *

 

The Institute shook. People tottered about, most with no idea what was happening. In the anteroom, the Templars retreated from the wooden door, fleeing as part of the ceiling caved in, the Marquis casting one last wide-eyed glance over his shoulder. Helen and Anna grabbed at each other, flinging themselves away from the cascade of masonry. Graves fainted clean away.

In the cells, Hawkeye shot out an arm to support Falconer. They careered into the wall, unable to maintain their balance. Falconer was suddenly the one bearing all the weight and they went down.

Ivan dropped to the stones as soon as the earth started moving. He had never been in an earthquake before but he was no fool. When an ominous creak came from the doorway, he scuttled to the far end of his cell and covered his head.

Mustang could not move. An unbelievable pain, as searing as any fire, was shooting through his body. An acid bath would have been an improvement. Paralysed, agonised, he screamed as the building writhed around him and threw him to the floor.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Pinako Rockbell looked up as the cups on the windowsill fell to their deaths. Den was barking like crazy, batting at empty air. The old lady tottered past the panicked dog, reaching for the back door handle. The house was shivering to its rafters, auto-mail parts falling off the shelves in a discordant clatter. Outside, Risenbool fared little better Already there were columns of smoke rising where there shouldn’t have been and trees leaning at dangerous angles.

 

The mechanic staggered into the yard, catching an old workbench before it could collapse and shatter, lowering it more carefully. The dog streaked past, still yapping frantically, nose in the air. Pinako looked up and her mouth dropped open.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, we can feel it too!” Falman yelled into the phone, fighting to stay upright, “Sheska, get off the line!”

Fuery screamed as a particularly violent quake brought the shelves down. Breda was already under his desk, fearlessly protecting the office whiskey supply.

 

The door flew aside, propelled by a combination of Jean Havoc, Maria Ross and a very flustered Denny Bloch. The captain was unlucky enough to trip and ended up at the bottom of the pile, biting clean through his cigarette. Spitting out tobacco, he shoved Ross off his back and struggled to get up. “What the hell’s going on!” he roared.

“No idea, Captain Havoc, sir!” Falman hollered back, abandoning his chair to join Breda, “But it isn’t stopping!”

 

* * *

 

Winry hit the floor with a bump. “Ow!”

Bouncing off the other bed and abruptly far more awake than she had intended to be, Paninya skidded past. “What the –”

“What’s hap –”

“Why is –”

 

A toolbox juddered off the bedroom desk, the contents flying in every direction. For a minute, the girls were too busy fending off wayward spanners to bother with any more half-finished questions.

 

And by then, they were ankle deep in books and trinkets, the window had broken open and they could hear the shouting from outside.

 

* * *

 

Holding onto Tawny, Rose fought to avoid ending up in the dust. The fountain was falling over, stallholders racing to get out of the way. Buildings reinforced by alchemy were already bucking and buckling, tiles dropping left, right and centre.

 

The boy in her arms had eyes like saucers. “Mom . . . what’s happening? What’s wrong with the clouds?”

She almost cried out in astonishment. What was wrong with _clouds_? What about the earth, the mountains, the desert, everything that was shaking down here? But she still could not help but look up.

 

And so it was that she saw what was wrong with the clouds. And realised that she was wrong to question her son.

 

Because the sky was shaking as well.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Noah had lost the lamp. She had to find Al with her hands. His skin was burning to the touch. She called his name but he did not reply and she was not certain if it was just the tremors that were making him shake. “Al! Alphonse!”

His hands closed on her arm, as tight as a vice. “Help . . .” he gasped, “Help . . . me!”

“How? What – _how_?! What's wrong?!”

“I can’t . . . I . . . help me!”

All she could do was hold onto him, the seething turmoil of his mind breaking in on hers, the pain inside him beating its way through her defences until she could no longer tell which were his thoughts and which were hers.

She barely even noticed the fingers reaching out to grasp them both.

 

* * *

 

There was a hole where the Gate had been and from it, Chamber's circle slowly wound the golden streamers of the bridge between worlds. His alchemy – this insane transmutation that was rewriting the universe – drew them out and wove them together into indescribable shapes.

Ed watched in mute incomprehension, trying to force his mind to take the sight in and failing. He had not the slightest idea what to do next.

Something nudged his waist. Edward was there at his side, huddling up to him like a kid scared of the dark. Amazingly, he could not bring himself to drive the creature away. It, like him, was lost. Helpless in the face of something so incalculably vaster than he was.

_Think_ , Ed ordered himself, _think! There has to be a way to . . . to do_ something _! Fucking hell. I’ve got everything that thing could shove in my head! Why don’t I know how to fix it?!_

“White . . .” The rasping, laboured voice startled him. Edward was pointing below the hole, at the jagged remains of the Gate, the crushed stonework and the doors lying across the pedestal. The shock of hearing it speak meant that Ed did not immediately process what it was trying to make him see. When he did, he understood at once.

The whiteness of the stones was billowing into the void like soap powder in a water tank, washing one formlessness into another.

The whiteness of the stones was billowing out into the void, like soap powder in a water tank, one formlessness gradually being replaced by another. The stones were growing black with the loss, darkening to the colour of storm clouds, wet peat, coal dust.

And . . .

Ed squinted. It was as though this new blackness was not stopping at the edges of the ruins. As if it were bleeding from the broken edges. Like ink on blotting paper. Bleeding out and rising and taking on a new shape.

The Gate was reforming. As the black Gate. As the alchemic Gate.

Which meant Chambers really had done what he wanted to. He hadn’t just knocked everything down: he really was starting to build it up again.

If he can do it, I can do it.

The thought no sooner entered Ed’s head than he was acting upon it. He dragged himself forwards as fast as he could, closing the gap between them. Hands suddenly clutched at his side, lifting him up, supporting his weight.

Edward smiled a blissful smile, overjoyed at having caught on to the game of ‘get Ed to the maniac’. Too focused on his goal to object, Ed accepted the crutch without comment. Together they charged at Chambers, the single entry in an insane three-legged race.

He did not even lift a finger.

Their feet lurched beneath them, slipping, turned aside as whatever they had been running on gave way. Chambers, his circle, the reforming Gate, all receded into the high distance. Ed flapped frantically, trying to catch hold of something, anything to stop the fall. He only succeeded in hitting Edward and his hoarse cry of pain trailed behind them as they plunged into oblivion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I apologise in advance for any gibberish I may have written while editing this. I am currently operating on far too little sleep and need most of my focus and attention for work.  
> \- The inversion of the Gate colours for 'our side' was inspired by the phrase 'pearly gates'.  
> \- Only about a quarter of the story left to post!


	29. Intermission 4: Touching the Past

_Northumberland. Before._

 

“It’s no good sir! We’ll have to go back!” The two lanterns danced over the snow. The man who spoke clutched at his coat, his words coming out in great puffs of steam. ‘Sir’ did not reply, striding on without acknowledging his companion.

“Sir!” He was pleading now, for his master as much for himself. “There’s nothing out here!”

“No!” The other man shouted to be heard clearly over the wind. He swung his lamp from left to right and back again, the beam uncovering nothing but crisp whiteness. “Something is out here, Bell,” he insisted, “Close by. We keep searching.”

“But sir . . . ! If the weather gets any worse, we could be stranded out here!” Bell stumbled. “We could be chasing a phantom to our deaths!”

“You saw the flash as well! This is no phantom!”

“Sir . . . I . . . I realise that . . . _sir_!”

Bell’s sudden change of tone brought his master running back, following his wild gesticulations to a hollow in the hillside. They clambered down into it, one rushing eagerly ahead, the other fighting cautiously for every foothold.

The sight made them both flinch with revulsion. A mangled collection of flesh and bone, the body that lay in the hollow scarcely resembled a human being any more. The master's foot caught on something half-buried in the snow and he stooped, discovering an angular metal mask, clearly designed to protect the upper part of someone's face. It had been cracked now one side.

A weak groan escaped the body’s ruined lips. “Good God!” Bell cried, “It’s still alive!”

His master was already kneeling, careless of his bespoke clothes. “Can you hear me?” he asked, hesitating, his hand an inch from the devastated skin. Another groan was all the answer he received.

“Do you understand me? _Can you hear me_?” Filled with urgency, the would-be rescuer leaned closer. “My name is Benedict Chambers, I . . . sensed your arrival. This . . . event is of monumental importance. Please. Speak to me.”

“It’s no good, sir!” Bell still held back, afraid to come closer. “I don’t think he’s in any state to say anything!”

The injured man’s eyes snapped open, staring madly out of his flayed face. Chambers jerked back. Bell gave a strangled gasp. Broken arms strained to lift and tendons stood out in the bleeding neck. The jaw scraped, a lipless mouth opening and closing without force. “G . . . g-g . . .” Eyes bulging, the man choked. “G-g . . . _Gate –_ ”

He broke off and his head fell back. Reflexively, Chambers tried to cushion it with his hands.

Their skin touched.

 

* * *

 

The study was cold. The grate had been empty for three days.

Behind the desk, Chambers sat immobile. Books and papers lay abandoned, pens pushed aside to make room for the object that held his rapt attention. No attempt had been made to clean the mask. Brown dust cracked from its back, marring the polished wood.

Bell knocked nervously, putting his head around the door univited. “Ah, sir . . . ?” He entered the room with the utmost reluctance. “Frau Eckhart is here, sir. She . . . ah . . . insists that you keep your appointment with her. She says that she cannot stay long . . . the war, I suppose . . . ah . . .” He hovered, supreme embarrassment radiation from every pore.

Chambers gave a vague nod. Bell shifted uncomfortably. “Should I, ah, show her in, sir?”

At last, the man in the chair paid him some heed, head flicking up. “Has Huskisson’s body been removed to safer storage?”

“The, err, man from the moor? Y-yes sir, he has.”

“Then show Frau Eckhart in. This cult of hers may have greater use than I first thought.”

 

* * *

 

London. 1919.

 

“Chambers, old man! Glad you could come!” Graves pumped his hand enthusiastically. Around them, people in mourning dress filed solemnly into the banqueting hall.

“Good evening, Thomas. You appear remarkably pleased for someone attending a dinner to commemorate those of your number who have died.”

Jowls dropping at once in a show of regret, the doctor coughed. “Well, of course. Tragic. The Donovan Organisation has lost too many young people. But listen . . .” It abruptly entered his head that they were standing in a very public place. “Ah. I need to talk to you . . . but later, after the dinner. A private matter that I think will be of great interest to you.” He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. Chambers said nothing. “Err . . .”

“Good evening, Thomas. I didn’t expect to see you here.” The intruder, a tall man with long greying hair, smiled from behind his glasses. He imposed upon their company shamelessly, in a waft of cologne and a spotless dinner suit. “I thought you were tied up at the hospital.”

“Ah, no . . .” Graves went a furious shade of red. “Had to come here, didn’t I? Bad form not to . . . oh, Chambers . . . this is Professor Van Hohenheim. Van Hohenheim, this is Benedict Chambers. Knew him at Cambridge. He was one of Donovan’s backers.”

Hohenheim smiled again. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you.”

“As I have you,” Chambers replied, offering his hand.

After a moment’s pause, it was taken up in a gentle grip. “That surprises me,” the professor admitted.

“I made a point of knowing who my money would be supporting. You were an advisor to Churchill at one time, were you not?”

This earned a rueful look. “The problem with giving advise is that there is no certainty that it will be taken.”

“Indeed.” A slight frown creased Chambers’ brow. He pulled away from the handshake, something Hohenheim was clearly grateful for. They regarded one another. Chambers rubbed his thumb over his fingers. “I understand you lost one of your students a few months ago.”

“Yes. Edward. He . . . was killed in an airship attack.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of the noticed Graves going pale at their side. Chambers was still looking speculative. “Would it be possible for us to meet again, Professor? I know that is a dreadful imposition but I recall a paper of yours that rather fascinated me. I intended to write to you about it prior to the war but circumstances prevented me.”

Hohenheim blinked. “I think you must be referring to someone else.”

“I do not believe so.” Chambers looked him in the eye. “Your work on the history of the Philosopher’s Stone was most distinctive.”

 

* * *

 

“So . . .” Swilling whisky around his glass, Hohenheim leant back in his armchair. The library was empty apart from the two of them, the books bearing mute witness. “Are you going to tell me how you know?”

“How I know what?” Chambers inquired, gazing into his own drink.

“My ‘work on the history of the Philosopher’s Stone’ . . . I have not spoken to anyone in this world of that.”

“Not even Edward March?”

“Not even Edward.”

“He was your son.”

“No. Just someone with his face.”

“Yet you mourn them in equal measure.”

With another of his sad smiles, Hohenheim sipped his whiskey. “Yes . . .” He yawned. “If you aren’t going to answer my first question, will you at least tell me what you want?”

“Knowledge,” Chambers said at once, “What else does a scientist seek?”

“Ah, but you are not a scientist. You are a wealthy private individual with a healthy interest in alternative perspectives.”

“The supernatural can be studied scientifically.”

“True. Why should I tell you anything?”

“I could assist you in finding a way home.”

“This world is my home now.”

“The knowledge you possess could be extremely valuable.”

“Then why share it?”

“Locking it inside your head . . . taking it to your grave . . . that would be a great waste. Let me take it and guard it for you, so that it may survive.”

In the silence that followed, Chambers finally drank as well.

“How selfless of you,” Hohenheim dead-panned, “How much do you know already?”

“Enough to know there is far more.”

“I see. Greedy for the secrets of the universe,” he said contemplatively, “I’ve seen it before. In the mirror, for one.” Unhurriedly, he put down his glass and rolled up his sleeve. Some of the corroded flesh below peeled off with it. “I don’t suppose this will change your mind.”

“I have no intention of committing such a folly.”

“Neither did I. No one intends to commit them. That’s why they’re follies.”

He rolled the sleeve down again. His smile returned, more faintly. “It seems to me that you’re not asking me to explain anything to you. You have some other way of extracting information. I doubt I will be able to stop you doing so. This old body is . . . wearing out.”

“I have no wish to take without asking.”

“You already have. And you’re going to again.” Hohenheim closed his eyes. “But thank you for being polite enough to go through the motions. It’s a very civilised aspect of your country’s culture.”

 

* * *

 

_Bavaria. 1923._

 

The dragon chomped away on Bell’s bones, snapping them one by one, clearly enjoying playing with its food. Falconer was pressed against the tower wall, breathing heavily. One great purple eye had her pinned to the spot, weighing her up as another meal. The sinuous bulk coiled over and over on itself, making it impossible to tell where the tail was in relation to the head. A great serpent indeed.

Chambers approached slowly. In plunging from the rafters and rushing to consume the unfortunate secretary, the dragon had failed to notice him. Keeping quiet and unobtrusive, he was able to get within touching distance and that was all he needed. The dragon stiffened and stopped eating.

The scales under his finger were cool. Images tumbled into his mind, places and people, a landslide of thoughts and feelings crashing through mental doors. The winding body relaxed, the massive head falling to the floor.

“ _How do you deal with other people’s emotions?”_ Hohenheim had asked, lucid even while his memories were being drawn out, _“Don’t they drive you mad?”_

“ _I ignore them,”_ Chambers had replied.

But it was hard to ignore the dragon’s emotions. A boiling, virulent hatred coloured its entire existence, a fire that almost totally eclipsed the inky alien coldness that lurked where its soul should have been. Nothing would ever satisfy such a being, nothing ever could. A constant bitterness at what it did not have drove it on and on, the never ceasing craving for the things it saw in others.

Chambers forced the poison to one side. It was irrelevant. He pressed on through to the coldness. There lay what he needed to know. The passions around it were but a distraction.

 

* * *

 

_London. 1924._

 

The back of his mind was itching.

This happened occasionally, when the memories he had taken grew restless in their confinement. Sometimes he caught himself signing things in a flowing hand that was not his own. Sometimes he would start scribbling equations in an attempt to understand an obscure physical process. Sometimes, he merely had to fight the urge to lash out at those who were obstructing him. Through constant struggle, he had been able to suppress most of the rogue characteristics, but they still worried at their bonds. The present irritation was the echo of the creature that called itself Envy. If it had been real, it would have been throwing something akin to a tantrum.

Chambers straightened, turning from the bandaged figure that lay on the hospital bed. The Marquis stood by the far wall, a disinterested observer keeping a lazy, calculating eye on the doctors who attended to their only patient. Through the windows, the sleeping city was just visible, a few lights sharp in the night.

Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, certainly nothing that could have disturbed Envy. But the itching continued, growing in strength. Then he saw how still the Marquis had become. A trickle of sweat was sliding down his brow, the face below unnaturally motionless. The doctors too had ceased to shift about. Chambers took a few steps backwards. For some reason, doing so was incredibly hard. He wished to move but in between his mind and muscles, the impulse was smothered. Turning his head was just as difficult.

A cloaked figure glided across the room, unreal yet disturbing the air in a way no ghost could. One jet black hand emerged from the folds of snowy fabric. There was the hint of something feminine beneath its robe and a golden gleam in its eyes.

Unhurriedly, she crossed to Edward March’s bedside. Envy became frantic, beating at the sides of Chambers' skull. It spurred him to fight against the lethargy, to make the serpent's rage into a knife and cut against the oppressive haze. The woman reached towards the boy’s head, lightning playing over her skin.

With a monumental effort, Chambers flung out his arm. His palm connected with her wrist and his fingers snapped closed. She whirled to face him, her form blurring, growing indistinct.

And in a storm of sunlight and staring eyes, he saw the Truth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This is the last intermission!  
> \- A little forewarning: I'm likely to be rather busy preparing for Christmas etc over the next couple of weeks, so the update schedule may become a tad more erratic than usual. Sorry about that.


	30. At the End of the World

The bump when they landed was unexpected.

_Landing_ was unexpected. It was like waking up suddenly after falling in a dream to find you had actually fallen out of bed. Almost precisely like that.

It felt like there were the beginnings of a frickin' big bruise all the way down Ed's side.

The steady hiss of alchemic reactions filled his ears. As his vision swam back into focus, the first thing he saw was that everything inside Chamber's circle was gone. The golden ring still hung in the air but all the matter that had been below was . . . absent. In his addled state, he could not come up with a better description and resolved to avoid looking at it.

The door was still shut. He began dragging himself forward, working out the logistics of getting up to the handle. It was not going to be easy. Never was. No one ever appreciated how hard it was to do things with only one leg. They tended to assume you could hop for it if you had to. He'd had quite a few fantasies about cutting some people’s left leg off, pushing them over and seeing what they said after that.

Reaching the door, he used the cross braces as ladder rungs, until he was balancing on his foot. At which point he remembered that it opened inwards and that that dragging it open would almost definitely end with him flat on his back.

Then remembered that he was not alone. “Hey, you!” He rounded – as far as he dared – on the heap of limbs and bandages that was just visible round the edge of the . . . absence. Edward March gave him a dazed look. “Get over here!”

Unsteadily, the creature did as it was told.

“Help me stand,” Ed ordered, “Like at the Gate. No, under my arm, you dumb bastard! There!” Braced properly, he pulled at the latch and heaved the door open.

The anteroom was a mess. With part of the roof caved in, it had been reduced to about two thirds of its original size and there was debris strewn liberally across what was left. There was still a way through back to the entrance but it was going to involve a lot of clambering over rubble. Which was wonderful.

Seeing that brought it home to Ed just how drained he was. He sagged against Edward, unable to help himself. And which the exhaustion came the enormity of what was happening around him. “Fucking _hell_ . . . ”

It was the end of the world. The ground beat like a drum with distant vibrations. The air smelt sharp and oppressive. A kind of fragility pervaded everything, a breath held in preparation for an inevitable collapse. He felt the same, dulled and weak, ready to come apart at any moment.

But he couldn't afford to think like that. Not if he was going to do something about it. And the End had not come _yet_. The circle was still powered. The reaction was still running.  Chambers had not finished. While that remained true, there was still a chance.

The only question was what he was going to do with it.

“Edward!” A woman’s voice, scared and close. Dim shapes groped their way out of the wreckage. The homunculus-man promptly rushed to meet them.

“Hey – oof!” Spitting out a mouthful of plaster, Ed pushed himself up to see Edward flinging his arms around the younger of the two nurses. The embrace must have been crushing but she did not seem to mind. Quite the opposite, she was leaning into the hug with an expression of unbelieving relief. The older woman was behind her and she awkwardly patted Edward on the back.

“Hey!” Ed flailed. “Gimme a hand here!”

Releasing his grip, Edward quickly and sheepishly resumed his function as an extra set of legs. The nurse staggered slightly, her hands clutching at her grimy, torn dress. “I . . . I'm sorry . . . are both all right?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Ed growled, “We need to get out of here, now.”

The other one bristled. “That was hardly a stupid question in the circumstances, young man,” she said in an icy voice.

“Circumstances?!” he shouted, “Lady, you have no _fuckin’_ clue about the circumstances! Now move!”

She would have argued with him, but luckily her friend had more sense and pulled her toward the way out. “Anna, he’s right. We can’t stay here, it could collapse any minute.”

The threat of more falling rocks did the trick. Without further argument, they scrambled their way out.

Edward helped Ed follow them far faster than he would have liked. This was mainly because the speed was equalled by a lack of attention to things like low hanging beams. He was extremely grateful when the passage turned out to have escaped mostly unscathed. Anna had stopped by an alcove, clearly not used to having to rush about, while the other one was hovering anxiously, waiting for her patient. “Can you manage?” she asked worriedly.

Edward nodded eagerly, heaving Ed over the last obstacle. An auto-mail hand waved at the otherwise empty corridor. “Where’s everyone gone?”

“Th-the Marquis’ men ran when the ceiling came down. I don’t know what happened to Dr Graves . . .”

“Hn. Must’a got above ground . . . you know the way out?”

She nodded. “I-I think I can remember it…”

“How about the way back to the infirmary?”

“I . . .”

She wavered. Belatedly, Ed realised just how terrified she must be. “Look, urr . . .”

“ _Helen_ ,” Edward whispered.

“Helen. They’ve got my auto-m – my false leg. I need it back before I can do anything about what's happening here. Once I get it back, I'm going to fix this mess, but those bastards in black took it. My guess is it's where they had my arm, which I think is your infirmary. So can you lead us back there? Because we need someone to go ahead, show us the way and make sure there's nothing in the way. And the way I see it, you're the only one here who's going to be any good at that right now. So can you do it?”

She swallowed hard. “I . . . yes, of course.”

Ed smiled as reassuringly as he could.

“Good. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The tremors kept up all the way. Three or four times, they nearly lost their footing and once a cabinet missed Anna by a hair. The further they got from the array, however, the weaker the shocks became, until walking was no longer a hazardous exercise. Free of low-hanging obstacles, Ed felt free to order Edward to get a move on. Of course, this meant Anna kept falling back and forcing them all to slow down again, which made Ed grind his teeth in frustration.

There was no sign of anyone else in the building. In the few minutes it took them to make their way from the cellars to the main part of the house, they came across absolutely no one.

“Maybe they evacuated,” Anna suggested.

“Maybe,” Ed repeated sceptically.

“Well, they clearly are not here.”

“ _Clearly_.” His lip twisted. Evacuation made sense. Except these people had been working with Chambers, or at least for him. They must have had _some_ idea of what was going to happen. Some faith that it was going to work, even. Would they really all have upped and left? “This isn't right . . .”

As if to reassure him that the universe’s sense of melodrama remained intact, no sooner had he spoken than Helen gave a strangled gasp.

Ed did not have to spur Edward on. The nurse had frozen and as he rushed them to her side, it was not hard to see why. Three men and a woman were sprawled across the floor ahead. They were all dead, that much was obvious, as was the cause of their death. Massive chunks of their bodies were gone, torn away to leave bloody gaps in flesh and bone. Of the missing pieces, there was no sign.

Anna made a horrified noise. “Dear Lord in heaven!”

“Stay back!” Ed shouted, “You . . . get me closer.”

Gulping, Edward did as he was told.

“Lower me. _Lower not drop_! Right.” Clumsily, Ed used his auto-mail hand to lift the ruins of the jacket aside, giving him a better look at the wound that had killed its owner. The injury had a curiously regular pattern to it, skin and muscle stripped away in distinct lines that could have been gouged by hundreds of tiny teeth . . .

“Up.” As soon as they had straightened, Ed beckoned the women on. “OK, now we gotta run.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Helen stammered, “What d-did this?”

“Just _run_! ”

 

* * *

 

They entered the final stretch towards the infirmary at as close to sprinting as any of them could get, Anna wheezing, Helen red in the face, Ed in the lead, trying to look every way at once, searching for the barest hint of a bright purple eye or a grasping, oily hand. Having been left as the only one who was really paying attention to where they were going, it was Edward who saw the blockade and skidded to a stop first.

Which meant he pretty much saved their lives.

A bullet nicked the tiles in front of them, the shot drowning out Ed's yelp of obscene German. Over the top of a wall of beds and tables, two pale faces stared at them. “H-halt!”

“You’re supposed to say that BEFORE you start FUCKIN’ SHOOTING people!” Ed thundered, causing one of the men to flinch. The one with the gun did not.

“Y-you!” he stammered in a French accent, “Y-you did this, didn’t you? You and Chambers! This is what he wanted you for! To set those . . . _monsters_ loose!”

“L-luke!” squeaked the more nervous man, “W-wait!”

Luke was not listening. “Send them back! S-send them back n-now or I shoot you where you stand!”

Ed took a deep breath. “I will,” he said, dropping his voice to what he hoped was a reassuring, non-lunatic provoking tone, “Let us through and I will.”

“N-no! You’ll let them in! They’ll get in an-and they’ll eat us! N-no! Send them back now!”

“I can’t. Not yet. Let us through.”

“N-no! _N-n_ –”

Luke's friend hit him on the back of the head with a chair. The gun discharged into the barricade and Luke crumpled. “Quickly!” They were frantically waved on. “Come in! Hurry!”

Ed made sure Helen and Anna got safely over the tables, then let Edward hoist him up.

Up close, the still-standing Templar looked almost exactly like a younger Vato Falman.

Incredulity must have shown on Ed's face because the man flinched back and started compulsively explaining himself. “We were waiting for the Marquis to come back when everything started shaking . . . Luke came up from the other ward . . . his leg . . . he came in screaming . . . raving . . . started building this . . . Lazarus and me . . . we didn’t . . .”

Not-Falman was obviously on the verge of hysterics. Much to Ed's relief, the door behind him edged open before he could actually started crying. “Cain? What is – oh?” Lazarus took in the scene. “How –”

Ed lunged for him, seizing a fist-full of his shirt. “Where’s my goddamn _leg_?”

“ _Eyes!_ ” Edward’s hoarse rasp went up an octave.

Ed looked over his shoulder just in time to see teeth flashing in the shadows that were gathering at the opposite end of the corridor in complete contradiction of any actual light source.

“Inside!” Lazarus cried, pulling back, dragging Ed after him.

The nurses fled in his footsteps while Edward and Cain grabbed Luke. The Templar kicked the door shut.

“That’s not gonna hold them!” Ed shouted.

He _knew_ it wouldn’t, in the same way he had known they had been responsible for the bodies. They were the Gate Children and they would consume anything they found. Whatever the truth in Chambers' rambling stories about the nature of reality, Ed had experienced first hand what the limbo creatures could do and he was not in the least surprised that Luke had cracked down the middle on seeing it. They were like nothing in the world. Nothing in either world. And there was nothing that would stop them, certainly not a locked door. He could just imagine their grasping hands flattening and oozing through the smallest cracks, an oil slick hungering for warmth and substance and would keep coming until it got it –

Sheer desperation made him do it. If anyone had asked, he would have claimed genius inspiration but the honest truth was that he acted on pure, animal-at-bay instinct.

His hands hit the floor while the clap was still echoing off the walls, striking hard enough to draw a protesting creak from his auto-mail. Harsh, electric blue fire erupted around him, surging up the wall, wiping every feature clean. Skirting board, ventilation ducts, door – all vanished, leaving only a smooth, seamless stretch of dappled grey.

Seconds later, something struck the barrier. They could all hear it scratching and scrabbling and making a thick sucking noise. Then it went away and there was only the spitting and hissing of sparks.

Ed fell on to his back.

“Ow!” He clutched at his stomach. “That . . . hurts.” No one said anything. They were too busy gaping.

He exhaled loudly. “Yeah. Right. And if I don’t get my leg back soon, I’m gonna get really mad.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sorry about the belated update! Should be able to get the next two chapters at least out on time.  
> \- Not much in the way of notes -- hopefully everything is fairly self-explanatory!  
> \- I'm not 100% sure what a younger Vato Falman would look like. I think he has more hair.


	31. Side Effects

“Those things getting through, my alchemy working: they’re both side effects.” Ed ran a hand through his hair. He was sitting on one of the beds, where he had a good view through to the adjacent workshop. In particular, he had a good view of the workbench and Lazarus’ efforts to reassemble an example of cutting-edge Rockbell auto-mail as rapidly as was physically possible.

A very baffled-looking Cain raised a hand, like a kid in a school room. “But . . . you said he was trying to make ‘alchemy’ work here. Doesn't that mean it's what Mr Chambers wanted all along?”

“Yeah, but not _my_ alchemy. He’s trying to make his own . . .” The Templar’s expression was on the wrong side of comprehension. Ed trailed off and sighed. “Never mind. You bastards really had no idea what Chambers was doing, didyah?”

“Um . . . the Marquis did . . . we knew it was something _arcane_ , but . . . we were just doing our jobs.”

“Huh. He musta been paying you a hell of a lot.”

The other man shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that. Not completely . . . he . . . _knew things_. And . . . we follow the Marquis. All of us. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t pay . . . we do what he says.”

“Why?”

“Because of what would happen if we didn’t.”

“It’s done . . . your – leg.” Lazarus emerged, cradling the auto-mail as someone might a new-born crocodile.

“About frickin’ time,” Ed groused, “Bring it over here.”

The doctor approached reluctantly, handing the limb over. Ed shook it experimentally. The right things clanked against each other. Nothing fell off. Judging this to be a good sign, he stood it on the floor and manipulated the end into his leg port. The first touch of the connectors was, as always, reminiscent of biting into something that was far too cold, the same sharp, spiky shock. He lined up the catches and let go. “Helen, can you do me a favour?” he asked.

The English woman left Edward’s side. “What is it you need?”

“You to close this catch. Should just slam home. I’d prefer someone else to do it.”

She blinked, then nodded, kneeling to examine the mechanism.

Ed gripped the bedstead. “Ready?”

“I think so. Just…like so?”

“That’s righ – grrrrraaaahhh!” The catch shot in with a harsh snap. Ed’s back arched, his jaw clenching against a pained hiss. Edward whined in sympathy.

“Th-thanks,” the alchemist said eventually.

“You’re welcome. I didn’t think it would be very pleasant for you.” Helen pointed at his knee. “That must go right into your bone.”

“Bones and nerves, yeah.” Experimentally, he flicked his foot. When that moved easily, he stood up. The leg did not break under the pressure. Walking a few steps, he decided that it was operating as well as he could expect it to.

Lazarus followed his progress anxiously. “You are pleased . . . it is working?”

“Looks like it.” Ed thumped a flesh fist into a metal palm. “We’ve wasted too much time. Where’s Chambers’ office? I lost track when they were moving me about.”

“It’s upstairs,” Cain supplied, “b-but . . . those things…”

“I gotta risk it. Is it above us?”

“Err . . . n-no. Along a bit…”

Ed clapped.

What he meant to do was create an opening in the ceiling and extrude steps from the floor, providing easy access to the upper storey.

What he actually did was blow a hole in the ceiling and knock down everyone who was standing up.

Edward stumbled back to his feet and looked quizzically down at his duplicate. Ed coughed and flapped away at the cloud of dust. “I . . . guess I’m out of practice.” Even he thought he sounded unconvincing. His eyebrows sloped. “Just get some beds and chairs under the hole.”

When no one did any such thing, he raised his hands threateningly.

The Templars jumped and rushed to obey.

 

* * *

 

Mustang decided that he was no longer dying. The agony had gone, though its echoes lingered. He could actually move to the point of uncurling from a foetal position. Admittedly, the way the floor kept trying to become a wall meant that that movement was limited to what was necessary to wedge himself into a corner, but he felt it should still be counted as an improvement.

The juddering showed no signs of stopping. Stonework battered him from all angles, beating at his cuts until they were stinging and weeping. He groaned. “Behold, the Flame Alchemist and his strategy for dealing with the apocalypse,” he proclaimed to the otherwise empty room, “Find a corner, take up residence and wait for everything to go away.”

 _A gun_ , he decided, _a gun and a way out of the cell and then I’d be able to say I at least tried to do something_. Of course, if he had had access to his alchemy, he would have been able to do far more than try . . .

He began to hope that Hawkeye was safe. He promptly replaced the thought with the far more practical hope that she was on her way, guns blazing, ready to beat down any opposition. _It wouldn’t be the first time_. His mouth twitched into a smile he did not really feel. If she had burst in right then, Winry Rockbell would be owed a kiss from the Fullmetal Alchemist. The rational part of his mind concluded that a combination of helplessness and injury was probably making him more than a little hysterical.

The significantly less rational part started begging forgiveness from a long line of burning faces.

The bolts slid back.

By the time he was satisfied that he was not having auditory hallucinations the door had swung open. A spectre of Ishbalan vengeance lurched out of a blazing inferno. Then Mustang focused and Scar became Ivan, the ‘inferno’ nothing more than crazily flickering lights.

“Brigadegeneral?”

“You’re not the rescue party I was expecting,” the General told him, “but you’ll do.”

Ivan got the sentiment and snorted, offering his hand.

Mustang took it gratefully, looking past the Roma. “You’re alone?”

A shrug and a shake of the head was all the answer he got.

The tunnel outside was in ruins. The roof had caved in in several places, cutting across the passage and breaking open several of the cells. A black clad corpse had fallen next to the wreckage, head caved in.

Ivan waved at the next cell along, his meaning obvious. Mustang frowned. “Is Hawkeye here?”

Again, Ivan said nothing and shrugged. Mustang looked at the shattered Templar and his blood ran cold.

He pulled away from Ivan and recovered the dead man’s pistol. He tried to get the sabre free as well but it was firmly stuck. He gave up, glancing back apologetically. Ivan grinned and produced a knife, pointing to the corpse’s boots. Mustang nodded approvingly. “I’ll keep this then.”

The gun was unfamiliar but not so much so that he would be unable to use it. There _was_ the slight problem of his previous record with firearms, not to mention the slight haze of delirium that still clouded his head. But under the circumstances, no one else was going to be able to shoot straight either.

She’ll just be stuck behind that mess. Or she’ll have been somewhere else entirely. Shelve it. There’s a job to do.

He cocked the pistol. “Right. Let’s find Fullmetal.”

 

* * *

 

_They had all avoided him when he had been a child. Even his sisters had been afraid that he would steal their secrets. Oh, they tried to hide their unease at first but the deception waned quickly. If he had been older, he might have been respected. As it was, they kept a frosty distance._

_There had always been something missing from her life. A father who existed only in photographs. A mother she had seen buried. A body that she nearly forgot. A brother who gave up his life. Years of experience and growth lost to oblivion. Even when she got those memories back, even when she finally got the chance to grow up, she was adrift from her home, forever cut off from the world of her birth._

_It was only when he was old enough to work that he gained some kind of equality with the others. He could dance as well as any of them and he soon learnt how to leave people satisfied with what he told them. There was a strange duality about telling fortunes. People sought it out as wondrous and hated it as unnatural at the same time. They would look at him and see someone beautiful and then turn away, contemptuous of the witch._

_She was always losing people she cared for, no matter how hard she fought to keep them close. And that left her more desperate than ever to hold onto those who were still there. The dread was always at the back of her thoughts now, quiet but insistent:_ one day, you are going to be truly on your own. _They were all going to be gone. And she had no idea what she would do when they were._

_He was alone. Even in a crowded room, he would be alone. But…_

_She would be alone. Every room would be empty and silent. But…_

_But he had never been a fortune-teller._

_But she had never been an alchemist._

 

* * *

 

Ed tore down the heavy curtains that had kept natural light out of Chambers’ office. It was dark, not because of nightfall but because of the storm clouds that hung over the compound, swirling and black.

Not just dark grey like normal clouds but real, sullen, ugly black. Lightning flashed. The window frame was trembling.

Edward, for some reason, had decided to climb up the bookshelves. Helen paced below, nervous but unable or unwilling to prevent her charge from doing what he wanted. Cain hung about by the door, eyes peeled for stirring shadows. The office was immaculate. There was nothing on the desktop and the drawer held nothing of interest. A few pens lined tidily up. An inkpot. Paper. No alchemic notes. No explanation of the arrays. Nothing useful. Slamming it shut, Ed stalked towards the shelves. With no markings on the covers, he would have to go through every single damn book –

With a drawn out ‘eeep’, Edward fell off, a thick ledger held to his chest. He bounced up and proffered his bounty. “Alchemy,” he said proudly.

“O – kay. Thanks . . .” Ed took it and leafed through a couple of pages. And his eyes widened. “ _Huh_.” It was filled with arrays. Hundreds of them, neatly inscribed with annotations. Some he recognised, some were totally alien. Next to a few were lists of symbols, with meanings scratched out under them. There were no other notes, no theory, no formulae. It was less an alchemist’s research and more a gallery of pictograms.

He reached the last page. It held a single, empty circle. Beneath it was a single sentence, neatly underlined. “‘Guidance components unnecessary’,” he read, “‘Direction from internal dynamic’.”

Ed chewed his lower lip and went back to the desk, dropping the book. He leaned over it. “ _Internal dynamic_? What the hell . . . ?”

“Don’t . . . don’t you understand it?” Helen asked.

“Alchemists write in code, I’ve only just looked at it and I’ve never seen anyone use an array that was just a circle. What do _you_ think?”

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

Engrossed, Ed did not reply. He flicked back and forth, trying to find some sense to the order in which the diagrams were presented. There was human transmutation next to fire manipulation, general-purpose circles next to those you’d only use to fix watches, Ishbalan Grand Arcana next to ancient Amestrian. They weren’t placed by function, by components, by origin . . .

“Simple,” he murmured and turned back, “Complex.” He turned forward again. “Simple. Complex. Simpler. That’s why they’re like this. Going from complex to simple. Human alchemy, fire alchemy, Ishbalan alchemy, circles like me and Al used to use . . . _Gate alchemy_. That’s it!”

“What is?”

He spun, shoving the book under Helen’s nose. “See? These last ones, before the plain circle? They’re the ones you can use to summon up the Gate, like Dante used. For them . . . you need to have the knowledge inside yourself. You’re the calculations, the equations – your knowledge takes the place of the inner components! It’s a kind of . . . _pure_ alchemy, I guess, energy directed by knowledge!”

“That . . . that sounds like magic.”

“It’s science . . . it’s still science but it’s on a really fundamental level . . .” He snapped his fingers. “And that makes it oppressive.”

“Pardon?”

“Um. Oppressive versus expressive? It's . . . kinda like endothermic or exothermic or . . .” Ed tore at his hair with his free hand. “Some alchemy only works if you keep powering it, keep forcing the reaction on. Mustang’s fire alchemy only works as long as he’s focusing on it, if he stopped . . . the flames would as well.” He saw her not getting it. “With some arrays, you can set them going and they won’t stop ‘til they’re done but with others, it's like _you're_ acting as one of the components in them and and if you break off halfway through – the reaction stops. The energy might escape in a backlash but things will stop changing, maybe even start to revert back to the way they were.”

“And . . . you think what Mr Chambers is doing is like that?”

“Yeah. It’s completely like that. He’s sustaining the changes practically on his own. He’s stored up all the energy he needs in that circle and now he’s directing it, controlling it. If we could make him stop . . . the Gate might start going back to normal!”

“‘Might’?”

“Yeah. ‘Might’. Don’t expect any more than that. I thought I’d have to redirect the reaction to stop this but could be that I won’t have to . . . if we can just get him to break off, distract him or something . . .”

“How would we do that?” Cain asked, having followed the conversation from across the room, “Pitch a rock at him?

Ed scowled and walked round the desk a few times before dropping into the chair behind it. “We can’t fight him at the Gate. Tried that already, didn’t work. And we can’t reach him while we’re here and he’s there.”

“Bring him back,” Edward said, simply.

Ed looked at him. A slow, vicious grin spread over his face. “Cain . . . there any explosives lying around here?”

The mercenary left the door, frowning. “Err . . . why?”

“Because,” he answered, grin widening, “I want to see what Mr frickin’ Chambers would do if someone blew a hole in his power supply.”

Cain shuffled his feet. “We have but . . . they’re not in this building and . . . and those things out there . . .”

“Damn – no. Heh. There’s a fully stocked infirmary downstairs. _And_ a workshop. We can make our own.” He shot out of the chair. “Helen, you and him get down there and start finding me things that’ll blow up.”

“Ah . . .” The nurse hesitated. “What about you?”

“I’m gonna ransack this office and see if there’s anything else that can help. The – _Edward_ can help me.”

“But what about –”

“They’ll come after us first. Trust me.”

Helen looked him in the eye. “I have to.” She took a deep breath, then hugged Edward. “Be careful,” she whispered.

The instant they were gone, Ed seized Edward’s shoulder. “How much alchemy do you know? Could you do what I did to the wall or the ceiling?”

The homunculus-man’s lips moved and he held up his fingers. “Y . . . yes.”

“Good. Then you’re coming with me.” For some reason, Edward's puzzlement spurred him to explain more. “We’re gonna go and destroy that circle. Those others . . . they’d just get in the way. We can bring roof of the room down, break it that way. If we don’t touch that array of his, we should manage it. Get it?”

“Oh, that’s a _great_ plan.”

Ed froze.

“Stupid _and_ suicidal,” the sneering, jeering voice continued, “Seriously, that's just a special kind of dumb.”

He did not want to look. He did not want to see how much worse the day could get. _Come on! There has to be a limit_ somewhere _!_

He spun.

Bizarre green hair casting shadows across his face, Envy smirked. “You just don’t change, do you pipsqueak?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dun dun DUUUUNNNN.  
> \- I realised in editing this that I had given the Chambers Institute two infirmaries and have no idea if this creates a continuity error or not . . .  
> \- The image of Edward falling off the bookshelves amuses me far too much.


	32. Echoes in the Well

“You’re not real.”

Lightning flashed. Envy kept smiling. “You sure, pipsqueak?”

“Yeah,” Ed told him, tone level, “Because you’re dead and I can see the wall through you.”

The smile became a snarl. The apparition lunged. “Then I’m a ghost come back to get you!”

He stopped short, spitting and biting. There were chains wrapped around his body, holding his arms against his sides, more binding his ankles. Ed hastily backed up. Having fangs snapping inches from your face made it harder to doubt their existence.

Envy’s thrashing about made more of his body visible. Beneath the chains, he was emaciated. His strange, skin-tight clothes were ragged, the ends stretched and broken. All the prettiness was gone from his face, leaving it haggard, insane hate written all across it, no longer hidden beneath a mask of lies.

He screamed, writhing more and more violently. The chains were unyielding. “No one wants you alive any more!” He flung his head about, thrusting it forward, hair flying. “You hear me, Edward Elric?! When I tear you apart, no one will mourn you! You’ll just be another carcass, another waste of blood, _ripped out of the world_!”

“What are you?” Ed demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“TRYING TO KILL YOU!”

“He’s a memory.” A new voice, warm, calm and familiar, emerged from the shadows in a corner. “We all are.”

Hohenheim of Light regarded his son from an insubstantial armchair, dressed in an immaculate dinner suit, hands folded in his lap. His golden eyes were half closed. “Hello, Edward. Both of you.”

“Dad . . .” Ed breathed.

Edward frowned, in the manner of someone trying to solve a complicated problem. Envy screeched, but his bonds still held.

Ed swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

Hohenheim smiled a little. “As I said, we are memories. Memories in the mind of a man who would play God.”

“You mean . . . _Chambers_? But how –”

He spread his hands. “The world is breaking, Ed. Anything is possible.”

Ed reached out.

“No. No.” Hohenheim waved him back. “For all that, I don’t think you’ll be able to touch me.” He glanced at Envy. “Which might not be such a bad thing.”

“If you’re just a memory . . . when did…?”

“Did I become removed from your real father? Shortly after we met in London. But I know what happened afterwards. From Chambers. We . . . those he touched, we exist in him as fragments, copies held prisoner. We don’t have a life of our own. But we have a kind of mental autonomy.”

“Everyone . . . everyone who’s mind he read . . . they’re all . . . ?”

“In a way.”

“Even –”

Without ever having not been there, another ghostly shape appeared, leaning against the side of Hohenheim’s chair. It lifted its single arm and gave a sarcastic salute. Edward laughed, pointing at himself, Ed and the newcomer.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Ed grunted, “Anyone else going to show up?”

“I have no idea,” Hohenheim told him, “Just as I have no idea how long we will be free to communicate. So, please, listen to me –”

“Do me a favour and stick your fingers in your ears,” interrupted Envy. Everyone looked daggers at him. He sneered. “What do I care if the universe ends?”

With a sigh that disturbed no air, Hohenheim straightened. “Edward – _Edwards_ . . .  you cannot attack Chambers with alchemy. Things are far too unstable for that to work.”

Ed winced. “When I made the way up here . . . the reaction exploded on me. I couldn’t control it.”

“The rules of the world are in flux. There is no telling what will happen if you attempt alchemy again.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Beat him with sticks?”

“Explosives,” Edward said quietly. “Helen . . .”

Giving it a moment's thought, Ed was quick to find the flaw in the suggestion. “Rules in flux, idiot. How do we know they’ll still blow up? And what happens when we get him back from the Gate?”

“Guns?”

“Which work based on a chemical reaction – did your brains not grow back yet?”

“His truth.”

There was a new figure in the air, right in the middle of the room. Envy rolled his eyes. “Oh great, you've woken _her_ up . . .”

Thin obsidian arms, hung with the same chains that contained the homunculus, shifted to hold a tattered cloak in place. Wild white hair hung in a mane, framing a slender, beautiful face. Her eyes shone. “His truth must die so that the Truth may live.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s clear.” Hawkeye eased herself though the gap created by the back of the cell collapsing. Her feet landed in water, kicking up a fine, icy spray. Beyond the small pool of light from the hole, the tunnel was in pitch blackness and shaking as violently as everything else. But it was not a locked room.

“A pipe must have burst . . .” Falconer mused, dropping down beside her, “Unless the pool is intentional. Which way?”

Testing her footing, Hawkeye put a hand on the far side of the passage. “No light either way. We’ll just have to pick a direction and stick to it until we find an exit.”

“And if we don –” Falconer stopped herself. “No, never mind.”

They splashed on into the darkness, one keeping close to each wall. Neither of them spoke much, save for occasionally checking that the other was still close by. Dust and more water rained constantly from the ceiling, so much so that Hawkeye could not suppress a twinge of anxiety at the structural stability of their escape route. If she had been able to see her hand in from of her face, she would have set a quicker pace.

Falconer, if she shared the worry, said nothing. Hawkeye hoped she was bearing up. It was hard not to remember the tremor in her voice when she had been talking about encountering the dragon or the way she had frozen when confronted with the Marquis. On the other hand, her reaction to the earthquake and the cell breaking open had been perfectly sensible and pragmatic.

And in perfect fairness, the scream transfixed them both to the spot.

The sound echoed through the tunnel, distorted into something inhuman by the confinement. It was impossible to tell which way it had come from or from how far off. Hawkeye tried to work it out, but before she could, a faint orange glow appeared ahead of them, showing gradually around a curve in the tunnel.

There was nowhere to hide. Footfalls pounded and splashed towards them, the scream repeating over and over, each time more raggedly. The glow became a definite light, swinging and jerking out of the darkness. A whirling shape came behind it, wild and unclear at first then resolving into the figure of a man, clutching at the hand carrying the lamp, howling himself hoarse.

Only when he was within a few feet of them did Hawkeye see why.

He was not carrying the lamp.

The flame and cage of the lantern were sticking out from his wrist, fused into his arm.

 

* * *

 

“Kindness, right?” The woman inclined her head gracefully in mute reply to Ed’s question. “You look more real than them,” he said.

“I am.” Her chains clinked. “I exist in my entirety. Chambers trapped me within himself, so he might know all I know and be all I am.”

“So all this is her fault as much as yours, pipsqueak,” Envy crowed, “You’re in really _high class company_.”

Kindness looked at him sadly. “You have played your part as much as he. Hush now.”

“ _Make me_!”

“What did you mean?” Ed shouted over the challenge, “'His truth must die'? Wwhat the hell does that mean?”

“It is part of the Truth that alchemy failed in this world,” the Gatekeeper said, “That its people cannot open the Gate. Power here stems from the mingling of souls, for that is the only resource available.”

“Telepathy,” Hohenheim offered, “The drawing of part of another’s soul into oneself. That is what we are. Parts of souls.”

Again, Kindness inclined her head. “He is correct. Chambers seeks to change that. To open the Gate so as to channel energy from your world to –”

“Yeah, yeah, _I got that_.” Ed was getting frustrated. “He told me his frickin’ master plan already. How do I stop it?”

“He believes he can change the order of things. He believes and so for him, it is a truth. It is that which he intends to put in place of the Truth. He will erase the Truth that is and impose himself in the gap. One soul, overwriting countless billions.”

“Look, lady, please can we just skip to the bit –”

“He will change the facts of history. He will make it so that events from long ago have a different outcome.”

“How do I –”

“With that, the Gate will invert. The transformation has already begun. There is only one way to prevent its success now.”

“How. Do. I –”

“His truth must die before it can become the Truth.”

“ – stop him?!”

Ed blinked. “Are you telling me to kill him? ‘Cause I got no problem with that except the one where I CAN’T TOUCH THE BASTARD!” He windmilled his arms to underline the point.

“Try it anyway,” Envy suggested cheerfully, “Then maybe we’ll see if you can be blown into something smaller than you already are.”

Hohenheim tapped the side of his head. “Truth, human truth, is an idea, Ed. It’s the most important part of alchemy, the internal dynamic that makes what we do possible. The conviction that we know what we are dealing with, that the world is how we expect it to be. To stop a reaction, any reaction, all you have to do take away the belief in that knowledge. Kill that truth.”

“You must act quickly,” Kindness said, a suggestion of urgency entering her serene voice, “before all things have been undone –”

She vanished.

One second there were four phantoms in the room, the next there were three. Edward prodded perplexedly at the empty air. Ed rounded on Hohenheim. “Where’s she gone?”

“I think we must be –” He disappeared as well, snuffed out, taking the ‘ghost Ed’ with him.

Leaving them alone with Envy. “Looks like it’s so long, pipsqueak.”

“Wait!” Ed ordered, “How am I supposed to ‘kill truth’?”

The homunculus laughed long and hard. “You’re asking a born liar about truth?! You’re even dumber than you used to be!” With that, he was gone.

Ed filled his lungs. Displaying more than a little sense, Edward stepped aside and tried to pretend he was part of the furniture. Which would have been a better plan if Ed’s wrath had not immediately turned on the available inanimate objects.

An auto-mail foot splintered the desk front. “WHO DO I HAVE TO KILL TO GET A STRAIGHT ANSWER AROUND HERE?!”

 

* * *

 

The man collapsed at their feet, his legs giving up beneath him. His right arm, the one melded with the lantern, blistered and distorted. Fragments of bone and metal burst through his flesh at seemingly random angles, arcs of electricity leaping between them. “Help me!” he cried thickly, “ _It won’t stop_!”

“Issacher,” Falconer gasped, automatically going forward to try and help before her more sensible instincts kicked in.

“What?” Captain Hawheye asked, not looking away from the man.

“His name. It’s Issacher. He’s a Templar. But . . .”

Pain-maddened eyes fixed on her. “You – the Marquis’ woman – _HELP ME!_ It won’t STOP!” He beat the mutating limb uselessly against the floor. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “HELP ME!” The mass struck the flags again and again, throwing up sparks. Falconer recoiled, horrified.

Hawkeye stepped closer, jaw clenched. “Issacher? What happened to you? We need to know.”

“ _It hurts . . ._ please!” he whimpered, “Make it stop!” There were shards of stone in his arm now, jostling for room. He screamed again, bringing it down once more with a sickening _crunch_. “MAKE IT STOP!”

Golden light cascaded up from the ground, splintering slabs and bricks, rushing in a great whirlwind around the frenzied Templar.

 _Magic._ That single thought was all Falconer managed before she was caught and tossed end over end by the wave of destructive change. Rock and soil spun across her vision, light and fire shooting past. Down became up and she fell into the sky.

Just before she crashed to earth, she caught a glimpse of a thousand hands clawing out from behind the light. Then her chin connected with something solid and a hot, coppery taste mixed in with the smell of a storm.

 

* * *

 

Al came back to himself, trembling in Noah's embrace. They were locked around one another, holding so tightly all feeling had gone out of it. When Noah lifted her hand to trace the side of his face, her fingers were icy.

His mouth hurt when he tried to speak. “What . . . what . . . that . . . that was . . .”

“Did you . . . see?”

“I . . . I _was_ you . . . Noah . . . you’re . . .”

She snatched her hand away. “I’m sorry, Al . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

“No, no, I didn't mean . . .” He gently eased his hold on her into something resembling a hug rather than a death-grip.

“So deep,” she mumbled into his chest, “Never seen so much . . . felt so much . . .”

He said nothing, rocking her, at a loss for what to say.

When the whispering started, Al was sure he was imagining it. A hundred church mice might have sounded the same, rustling inside the walls. There were words in it, or there might have been. Words he almost understood, or thought he might know.

“I . . . I can hear you.” Noah whispered, and he suddenly realised that it was not just in his head. “I can hear you. Who are you?”

The words surged, growing stronger, swelling like rain falling on a roof. Al searched the blackness around them, wondering when the lamp had gone out. The whispering was right behind his ear now. He felt fingers on his face again, but they were not Noah’s.

“We can hear you!” he called, not at all sure it was the sane reaction, “What do you want?”

And the Gatekeepers spoke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Envy's appearance was more or less down to me not otherwise getting to opportunity to write him.  
> \- Believe it or not, Kindness is trying to be helpful.  
> \- Hope to be able to do three updates next week too but we'll have to see how it goes. I would like to get the whole thing posted before the New Year.


	33. Disillusionment

The Marquis de L’enfer had seen things in his life that would likely have driven normal men mad. He had been responsible for quite a few of them. He had seen men burnt alive, men blown apart, men torn limb from limb. He had watched children blackened and scorched, women driven to cut their own throats, babes crushed under cartwheels. He had seen creatures that could barely be considered human and entities that almost certainly were not.

Yet somehow, all that had not prepared him for the sight of his Templars being consumed by living shadows.

He ran and as he ran, he forced himself not to hear the screams, forced himself not to imagine what was happening behind him, not to see the images seared into his mind. If he did, he would slow down and the hands would be upon him. He had no idea who was keeping up with him. Solomon had been there, Daniel too, in that mad rush to escape the collapsing anteroom. They had regrouped at the top of stairs, clutching at the walls and crying out as the tremors threatening to bring down more of the building on their heads. He had been shouting for order, for them to all shut up and listen, not act like a bunch of scared school children.

Then the shadows had opened their eyes.

The Marquis crashed through the doors into one of the main corridors, smashing a terrified orderly out of the way. The man stumbled back into a table as four more Templars pounded in behind him. The last of them barely made it over the threshold before oily, clawing ropes wrapped themselves around his waist and legs. He yelled and struggled to no avail, hauled inexorably backwards until the glinting teeth could fall upon him. The orderly screamed as he was caught as well, hoisted up and ripped apart in the space of a heartbeat.

L'enfer kept running, head down, refusing to look back. One of his men found courage somewhere amid blind panic and emptied his pistol at the teeth and eyes. The bullets rang on the floor and bit into the walls and made no difference to the monsters. He kept pulling the trigger even as the tendrils coiled about him and he was left to his fate by his companions

Another time, L'enfer might have been envious of that courage.

He barrelled his way out into the mansion's entrance hall, nearly slipping on water-slick tiles. The doors hung wide open and ink-black horror lay outside. Hesitating for but a second, he veered away, towards the grand staircase. Perhaps height would be a defence. Mounting the first step, he glanced over his shoulder. Solomon was there, hard on his heels. The others were gone and even as the big man sprinted the final few feet, black hands burst from the floor tiles under him. His eyes went wide and he flung an arm out to his master, one last desperate grab for salvation.

_Devil take the hindmost._ The Marquis fled.

 

* * *

 

Edward swore under his breath the whole way back to the infirmary. He wanted to kill something and there was a long list of candidates. That a few of them were already dead only vaguely mattered. He kept a multilingual stream of anger up throughout his climb down the stack of wardrobes and bedsteads they had used to get to the hole in the ceiling.

It was brought to a halt by the sharp click of a gun being cocked.

He looked up. The Templar who resembled Havoc stood there, pistol levelled. Cain was hovering at his side, pale and anxious. Another mercenary, one Ed did not recognise, was flicking a nervous look from him to Helen and Anna, who were backed up against a cabinet. Lazarus lurked by one of the windows, which, unlike the others, was wide open.

Ed’s lips peeled back. “Shoot me,” he spat, “and you shoot the only person who can save you.”

The gun barrel wavered, drawing dark ovals in the air. “Is that a fact?” not-Havoc asked, too calmly, “Yah helped make this happen. Maybe if ah shoot yah, it’ll stop.”

“It won’t. If you want to die, pull the trigger. If you want to live, get the hell out of my way.”

“Yah’re a _prisoner_. Yah aren’t in any position ta give orders!”

Ed thrust his head forward with a bark that was half laugh, half snort of disgust. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

“P-please, Daniel,” Cain pleaded.

His imploring had no effect. Daniel’s right eyebrow twitched. “Shut up,” he said offhandedly. He kept eye contact with Ed, neither of them blinking.

Edward, who had been crouching at the top of the stack throughout the entire exchange, chose that point to mewl loudly.

Daniel looked up, just for an instant, and Ed’s auto-mail fist crashed into his gun. It went off as it was dislodged, the bullet ricocheting off the battered steel. Reeling, the Templar tried to reach for his sabre but Ed's shoulder connected with his gut before he could draw it, sending him sprawling. Cain yelled and jumped away, while the man guarding the nurses started to raise his own pistol. Edward landed on him heavily. They went down, the weapons going flying. Using the distraction, Daniel surged to his feet, managing to pull his sword free. Auto-mail fingers locked around the blade, bending it was ease. Yanking it from its owner’s hands, Ed flung it to the floor. Losing his fight, Edward thumped to the tiles as well and his opponent lined up a vicious kick. Daniel lunged.

Ed’s palms came together before he could stop them, old reflexes taking over once again. A bolt of electricity shot the length of the room and left a smoking mark on the wall. There was instant stillness.

The sensible part of his brain advised against broadcasting the fact that he had never seen or done alchemy like that before. Composing his face while everyone was watching the wall smoulder, he held his hands a little way apart. “I’m getting tired of having to threaten you morons. Next one who doesn’t do what I say won’t have to worry about being eaten by the things out there.”

He glared round at the assembled crowd, trying to ignore the ear to ear grin plastered across Edward’s face. Daniel stared at him then nodded dumbly. Cain’s head was going up and down so fast it was in danger of falling off. Lazarus swallowed hard and the other Templar looked ready to run for the hills.

Ed grunted in satisfaction. “Right. I need those explosives.”

 

* * *

 

The further they got through the institute's seemingly endless store-rooms, the more bodies they found.

Mustang eyed the slumped form of a medical orderly lying in one corner, the man's torso almost completely eaten away. A Templar had fallen next to him, neck partially severed. The pattern of the injuries was erratic, random even, as if whatever was responsible had simply gone for the bit that was nearest.

He shivered, an icy chill running up his spine. Partly the horror of it, of course, but he was still half-naked and the air in the room was freezing cold. Ivan noticed and pointed at the Templar’s bloodied coat. It was a good suggestion, even if it meant looting a corpse. Getting down to manhandle the garment free, Mustang scanned the room for any indication of what had killed the men. As with all the other corpses they had come across, there was not so much as a footprint. Some sort of wild animal would have been his first guess except that the bite-marks were too small and too regular. It almost looked like a form of transmutation, and that thought made him shiver again.

From across the room, Ivan gave a sharp hiss. Mustang's head whipped round, one of his arms deep in a black sleeve. _Now what?_

Something oily was sliding across the doorway through which they had entered. Something oily, black and _alive_. He could see parts of it questing around the frame, stretching like fingers – no, they _were_ fingers, scores of them, feeling their way over the wood. He rose at glacier speed. More of the dark _stuff_ boiled out from empty air. Waving Ivan to do the same, Mustang began to back towards the other end of the room, where another door stood ajar.

The darkness opened its eyes.

On a shared, basic, self-serving impulse, they broke into a simultaneous sprint. The shadows boiled after them, whispering and chattering, teeth baring in hideous grins, eyes glittering purple, eager and hungry. Mustang looked back once then put his head down and charged as fast as his legs would carry him, keeping neck and neck with Ivan all the way.

The passage rocked drunkenly around Mustang, the shaking from running superposing on top of the tremors. His lungs quickly started to burn, adding proper pain to the aching soreness across his chest. No time to bother with that. He nearly tripped as the corridor gave way to steps. Ivan bounded up them two at a time. Mustang followed suit as best he could. A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Hawkeye pointed out that he had been spending too much time behind a desk lately.

If he survived this, he was taking up cross-country running. Jogging more than once or twice a week, at the very least. He’d rope the rest of his staff into it. Yes. Maybe he should get a loud-hailer. More importantly, maybe he should focus and thus make damn sure he _did_ survive –

“Ah!” The stairs ended abruptly at a closed door. Ivan crashed against it but it refused to yield. Mustang slammed into his back, bounced off and caught his shoulder on the wall. Thus spun round, he thumped onto the steps, looking helplessly down the way they had come. “Wooof! Ah – aah...?”

The expected horrifying sight was noticeably absent. Rather than instantly being torn to pieces, they were left perfectly intact and staring at an absurdly empty staircase.

Shooting upright, the Flame Alchemist pushed his companion aside, pulled out his gun and pointed it at the lock that barred their way. “Now I _know_ we should get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

“That, that and that.” Ed snatched the bottles from Edward almost before he had got them down from the shelves. He set them down on the worktable and tore the stoppers out of two. Having quickly checked which was the more empty, he upended one into the other, jammed its stopper back in and shook the result vigorously. Then he took a pipette and measured seven drops from the other, letting each sink into the mixture with a slight fizz before he squeezed out the next. “This,” he said, holding up the result, “we throw. Don’t drop it.”

Setting the bottle aside, he scanned the remaining stock of chemicals. They had already used up most of what was there, resulting in a mass of containers each with corresponding instructions like ‘throw’, ‘shoot’, ‘shake’, ‘mix, ‘fuse’ and ‘could do anything, chuck it and run’. Beside him, Edward flexed an arm that must have been aching from lifting and carrying. Lazarus was lurking in a corner, soaking rags in alcohol. Helen sat in the other, screwing tops onto tins and throwing worried glances at the chemist and the alchemist.

“Laws in flux.”

Ed scowled at the homunculus-man.

“What?”

“ _Laws in flux_. These . . . work . . . chemical laws.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“The laws go wrong and . . . these won’t –”

“Yeah, _I know_. You got a better idea?”

“But . . .”

“Did your brain not grow back yet?!” He rounded, infuriated. “We don’t have any-frickin-thing else! NOTHING ELSE! This. Is. It. Do you understand that? Huh? I KNOW most of it probably ain’t gonna work! But we haven’t gotta choice! _GET THAT_?!”

“That is enough!” Helen got out of her seat and stormed over to them. She wrapped an arm around Edward’s shoulders and faced Ed defiantly. “What has he done to you? You insult him, you dismiss him, you treat him with contempt and _why_? He has done his best to _help_ you! What has he done that you could . . . could look at him the way you do?

“He’s not a he!” Ed roared, “He’s – _it’s_ an _it_. A homunculus – not even that! He – it’s something _wrong_! It’s . . . it’s frickin’ monster!”

He regretted the word instantly. A hard, angry mask descended across the nurse’s face. “No. No, _he_ is not. I have known him a long time and he has _never_ been a monster. I know that whatever happened to him was _unnatural_ but that does not mean for one moment that he is the lesser because of it! He has suffered for _years_! The pain he must have felt before – it was nothing compared to what he went through to be well again! And he is! Look at him! _Look at him_! Do you see . . . how could you see a monster? All I see is a boy who survived through a . . . a miracle!”

“A . . . a _miracle_?” Ed sneered, utterly incredulous. “You think it . . . it was an accident! A _mistake!_ Not a ‘miracle'! H – _it_ isn’t _human_ any more! Don't you get that?”

“Who are you to make that judgement? What gives you the right to say that?”

“I've seen what things like him become, lady! You have NO idea!”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed, voice catching, “Are you telling me that anyone who goes through all that agony and lives must come back a monster? A monster without redeeming features, without any . . . any shred of humanity left in them?” She actually _laughed._ Edward looked up at her worriedly but she ploughed on. “And you claim to a _scientist_. You sound like a witch-hunter! Is that what your science is like? Assuming utter corruption?”

“You have no –”

“I don’t,” she repeated before he could go on, “You’re right. I can just tell you what I have seen and heard. And he has done _nothing_ to make you be so _vile_ towards him. And if you are simply judging on the accidents that made him the way he is that he could be . . . well, is that any _rational_ way to act?”

White rage swamped Ed. He lashed out, his fist shattering a distilling tube. “ALRIGHT! I KNOW! I KNOW WHY HE IS LIKE HE IS! I KNOW WHAT HE WENT THROUGH! I . . . know. I know he didn’t have a choice. I know it’s made him something he . . . he probably can’t even understand. And I. Know. That it was _all my fault_. There. ARE YOU SATISFIED?! It’s MY FAULT he suffered like that, MY FAULT he isn’t human any more! And I don’t have any FUCKING TIME for this.”

He whirled and snapped at Lazarus. “You!” The doctor jumped a foot in the air. “Help me get these through there. NOW!”

The Templar could not move fast enough.

 

* * *

 

Ed strode into the infirmary like a thunder-head and shoved an armful of volatile chemicals at Cain. “Drop these and we’re all dead a lot quicker.”

“Ah!” The radio-operator juggled the bottles alone for a second before an imploring look brought the other Templar – who’s name Ed had not bothered to learn – hurrying to his aid. Daniel went to assist Lazarus. Ed growled out an explanation of which concoction did what and how they were going to set them off, aware that they all had to be perfectly clear on the technicalities and inwardly cursing a blue streak over that need.

Catching sight of Anna gingerly picking up a bottle with a rag fuse, he made a beeline for the older woman. She cut him off before he could speak. “What would you have me do, Mr Elric? I dare say I cannot stay in this building once you and these young men are gone.”

“You should get out. The window . . . looks like those creatures aren’t going for anyone outside.”

“And then what? Wait for you to stop the end of the world?”

“That’s the idea.”

She regarded him levelly. “You intend to take Edward with you?”

“I have to,” Ed admitted, “I’ll probably need him.”

“Then while I will take your advice, Helen will not. I’m rather ashamed by that but I’m too old and too pragmatic to believe that I will be anything but a hindrance to you.”

“Yeah, well. Thanks.”

She thrust the bottle at him, meeting his eye. “Look after her,” she ordered, “Look after them both.”

“I . . . I’m trying to save the universe here!”

“Just be sure you save them along with it.”

He looked round to find them all looking at him. Helen and Edward had emerged from the other room. The Templars were clustered together, variously shuffling and uneasy. Ed cleared his throat. “You do what I say, when I say it. Anyone who doesn’t is probably gonna be ripped to shreds.” OK, not as inspiring a pre-battle speech as the Bastard General would have managed but it covered all the important points. He raised his hands. “I’m gonna open the way. I want anyone who isn’t coming with me out of the window before that. Anna, Helen . . .”

Anna nodded but hesitated. Helen drew a deep breath, marched to the still overloaded Cain and relieved him of two of the bottles. She did not quite glare defiantly at Ed but he got the point. Anna sighed, nodded again and climbed carefully out. Lazarus appeared ready to rush to join her but the combined expressions of everyone else in the room held him back. He hissed and fell back into line.

Ed faced the sealed wall and braced himself. He was going to have to risk transmuting it open. An explosion would bring the roof down. Besides which, he couldn’t use a bomb to duplicate the seal all the way down the corridors. And he had to do that, else they’d be even more at risk from the limbo-things.

Of course, the way things were going, he would probably collapse the entire building by accident –

Edward pushed him to the side. The surprise of the shove was enough to stop him from reacting fast enough to stop the homunculus-man from clapping. By the time he realised what Edward was doing, it was too late. His hands struck the wall and it boiled away, the material billowing and foaming. The reaction rushed through the gap, sweeping along the corridor to leave every surface featureless and flat.

Triumphantly, Edward lowered his hands, clenching them into fists. Ed closed his eyes. Something ached behind them. He could feel Helen’s stare on the back of his neck. He could feel Edward’s on his face.

He sighed and finally managed to swallow the burning knot of shame and fear that had been caught in his gullet since Chambers had wheeled out his other self. “Well done.” Edward’s grin was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again. He felt his lips twitch, then got a hold on himself. “Now, move it!” he ordered, “We’ve got a world to save.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I hope Ed's reaction comes across as understandable. I figure with everything he went through with the homunculi, it's the *right* reaction but it's also unreasonable and unpleasant.


	34. Tempest Tossed

A soldier should at all times be ready and willing to obey any order given to him. That was what they taught you in basic training. You had to keep a clear head and do what you were told, no matter the chaos around you. Without that, an army fell to pieces.

Dashing through the utter pandemonium that engulfed Central Command, Havoc came to the conclusion that whoever had decided on that as a good core lesson had never tried enforcing it during an apocalypse.

The people who weren’t running around in a blind panic were being trampled by those who were. Sergeants and warrant officers raced about, trying to impose some sort of order. Gradually – _very_ gradually – they were having an effect, pulling together squads and herding civilians towards the gates. Over their yelling echoed screams and over them, the thunderous shrieking of the city itself, as buildings were shaken towards the point of collapse. If they didn’t get everyone out into open country, the casualties would be off the scale.

Yes, if the world really was ending, it wouldn’t make any difference but they couldn’t stand there and do nothing, could they?

The main forecourt was awash with noise and confusion as lorries and cars were hurried out of their garages and sent careering out on to the roads. Captain Kite had got the mechanical core moving – Havoc could see him directing the exodus from the top of a flat-bed. That was good. Kite had a talent for organising convoys on the fly, something developed during the Ishbalan repatriation efforts. Stopping by the corner of a warehouse, he steadied himself against its brickwork and tried to get his brain in gear.

Damnit, why the hell had he ever gotten himself to a rank where people expected you to tell them what to do in a crisis?

“Captain, sir!” Precisely on cue, a thin man with coarse black hair and a pair of half-moon glasses dashed up and saluted. He was clutching a clipboard which did little to offset the fact he looked like a badly made scarecrow stuffed into a uniform two sizes too wide.

Havoc saluted back automatically. “Uh – what’s the situation –” A rapid glance at the man’s shoulder. “– Lieutenant, uh?”

“Dakota, sir. The third and fourth sections are waiting at the south gate. They need to know where they should go, sir.”

“Right. OK, tell them to drive out those gates and to pick up everyone they can find. Tell them to keep going until they’re in open countryside.”

“And then, sir?”

“Then it’ll be someone else’s problem. Hey, wait . . . south. Towards the river?”

Dakota nodded, patiently acknowledging the blatantly obvious.

“Then I need a car. Fast!” Havoc had taken five strides before he could respond.

“Sir! We don’t – why, sir?”

Havoc did not slow down. “Business for General Mustang.”

“With all due respect, sir, given what’s happening –”

“Given what’s happening, he’d kill me if I didn’t do this, _lieutenant_! Get that damn car!”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Hawkeye came around to raindrops landing hammer-blows on her back. Flesh protesting the punishment, she waited until she could think straight and her head was no longer ringing before trying to get up. That was the smart thing to do. Even if it meant a minute with your face stuck down in the mud and grass.

Slowly, she raised her head and spat out the after-taste of a bitten lip. The world in her direct line of sight was a confusion of blackness, faint lights and rain so thick it was like curtains. She could barely see more than a metre or so and could make out nothing useful. Her hands slid about in the mud as she pushed herself up, becoming caked in seconds. Memories of her first drenching by the French weather made her wonder if it had some sort of vendetta against her and it took longer than it should have to dismiss that as absurd.

A shape lurched out of the downpour and she nearly broke its arm. Falconer stumbled to a stop just in time, nearly falling over as she did so. Hawkeye caught her and they struggled to stay upright amid the onslaught. “We have to get under cover!” Hawkeye yelled, “Where’s Issacher?”

“I don’t know!” Falconer yelled back, “Didn’t see!”

Lightning flashed, temporarily cutting through the rain. Hawkeye caught the glimpse of something that could conceivably have been a wall, some distance ahead. “There! That way!”

Together, supporting each other, they battled their way towards the building, hauling themselves on by shared force of will. Halfway there, Falconer went over with a yell, pulling Hawkeye after her. They quickly disentangled themselves but froze when they saw what it was the spy had tripped over.

Half the body was missing. The top half. The legs lay there like someone’s idea of a bad joke. Falconer swallowed hard, then gripped Hawkeye’s sleeve and pointed as lighting split the sky again. More bodies lay along the gentle slope, none of them intact. They were scattered in a rough line, marking out a grisly curve. “What . . .” Falconer trailed off and wretched into the grass, unable to finish.

Fighting her own bile, Hawkeye let her eyes follow the line as far as the rain would allow. Something stirred by one of the corpses, a brief movement she might have imagined – except that it happened again, then a third time. Signalling to Falconer, she cautiously scrambled closer, hoping that it was a survivor, wary that it was something else. The black shape bobbed up and down behind the remains of a man in a white coat. She got within half a metre of it before it saw her and scuttled backwards, a pair of violet eyes looking up at her, wide and bright.

The creature looked like nothing so much as a baby dipped in tar. It was hunkered down on the ground, naked, completely unaffected by its lack of clothes or by the rain. There was nothing overtly horrifying about it – if you ignored the fact that it was hiding behind a dismembered body – but Hawkeye recoiled all the same. The tar baby broke into a huge grin, revealing a mouth full of too-white teeth. Then it rose up and reached out to her, its arms stretching impossibly far, tiny hands ready to claw at her face.

They never got close. Something, the air itself, or so it seemed, turned them aside. They snaked this way and that, trying to find a way around the invisible obstacle, but it was as if there was a wall between them and the two women. It snarled soundlessly in frustration. Another creature, almost identical, slunk out of the darkness to join it, closely followed by another, then a third. They beat at the barrier, their forms melting together into a mass of coiling arms and gnashing teeth.

“What’s stopping them?” Falconer wondered, so quietly Hawkeye barely heard her.

They’re not meant to be here, Riza replied in her head. Out loud, she said she did not know. “Whatever it is,” she shouted, “They can’t get at us. Come on!”

Glancing back as they made a stumbling dash for the house, Hawkeye was certain she saw them moving closer. She ran faster.

 

* * *

 

They found themselves in a kitchen lit by a single, flickering bulb. It was empty and the door on the other side stood ajar. The shadows were still. Mustang did not lower his gun. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep with the light off again and decided that, in this case, it would be a small price to pay if he survived this madness.

Ivan strode ahead, gently pushing the door slightly more open. He nodded. It was clear. Mustang went first, passing through a short corridor and emerging into a deserted dinning room. Thunder crashed as lightning cast everything in harsh blues. They hurried through, casting suspicious looks at the darkness under the tables and benches. Another corridor led out but this one was different: there was a steady, yellow light at the end.

The hallway was large and rectangular, a staircase in the centre leading up to a half landing and splitting left and right. The entrance stood open to the storm, which was well on its way to drowning the floor beneath a pool of water. They came in to the right of the staircase and as they made their way towards the exit, something creaked above them. Mustang's eyes flicked up and then down. There was a wet footprint on the bottom step.

“Someone’s in here. Someone still alive.”

Ivan muttered something in German. It did not sound optimistic.

“I hope,” Mustang amended, “Let’s work on the assumption that they _are_ still alive and go and find them.” He started upstairs, careful not to make too much noise. Just in case. Ivan followed, knife at the ready. They turned right into another passage, this one lined with closed doors. In unspoken agreement, they each took a side and began to methodically check the rooms. The first on Ivan’s side was an empty study. Mustang’s choice proved more interesting.

The room was high and long and dark. He stood on the threshold, letting his eye adjust. It was full of glass cases, softly clinking as the universe shook. He could not quite see what they contained. Checking for any immediate threats and satisfied that there were none, he walked a few paces inside, just far enough to get a better look at what was in nearest case. It turned out to be a sword, an antique studded with jewels whose colours he could not guess in the gloom.

It occurred to him suddenly that coming inside without checking behind the door might have been a very bad idea.

There was the click of wood on wood and the clack of a lock. A reflection shifted in the glass. Mustang leapt aside, too slowly. The Marquis’ sabre grazed the back of his hand and his purloined gun went flying. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other. Mustang had just enough time to take in the sight of his own face, tight and drawn and pulled into an animal snarl.

Wordlessly, L’enfer lunged.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Toban Dakota held on for dear life. It was the only sensible response to the way the Captain was driving.

He had barely managed to jump in before Havoc sent the black car rocketing out of the gates at the head of a column of trucks. Officially, he supposed, they were showing the lorries the best way to get out of the city and pick up as many people as possibly. Unofficially, he suspected they were going for some sort of racing record. The speed, combined with the earth tremors, was making him feel queasy. The way Havoc was taking corners was making him compose last will and testament.

The Captain yanked the wheel hard as something tumbled from the top of one of the shops that were streaking by, a gargoyle that missed them by inches. His knuckles were white and the cigarette had dropped from his mouth several streets back, although from the way his mouth kept working it was unclear whether he had noticed.

“Sir, if I may ask, where are we going?” Dakota shouted as calmly as he could. A few years serving as a junior adjutant to some of Amestris’ top generals ought to have been enough to beat the fear of death out of anyone but he had to admit that he was used to terror at much lower velocities.

Havoc grunted, his attention firmly elsewhere. “Need to get the people from the river districts out first.”

“You think it will burst its banks?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes sir, but I don’t quite understand why we’re leading the –” Dakota broke off as they swerved around an abandoned handcart and narrowly avoided ploughing into a fountain. “Why we’re leading the way at such a turn of speed. We’ve left the rest of the convoy behind!”

“Told you. Business for Mustang.”

“Ah, yes sir! As you say sir! But –”

“Look, if you want something useful to do, keep a look out for a mailbox. ‘Hughes’. Got that?”

Light dawned. “Brigadier General Hughes’ widow? Of course sir.”

“Yeah, right. Mustang would kill me if I didn’t make sure they were safe. ‘Course,” he continued, “he’d kill me for putting this ahead of my duty to get _everyone_ out safe but this way, when he comes back, I can tell him I did it while I was leading the rescue mission. And,” he added in an undertone, “he’d better be coming back ‘cause he’s probably the only guy who can save my career after pulling this stunt.”

Dakota was debating whether he was expected to reply or not when the road ahead disappeared. He screamed at exactly the same time as Havoc. The car crashed to a stop, turning as it did so, until it was broadside to the gaping crack that had ripped across the street.

They scrambled out. The quaking was getting noticeably stronger. Dakota got to the crack first and peered into it. “Holy heck!”

Havoc reached him, looking down through the fissure with wide eyes. _“Damn.”_

The forgotten city was crumbling. The great cavern below was full of broiling plumes of dust as first one then another of the ancient buildings was shaken apart. The crooked terraces fell like dominoes, houses preserved for hundreds of years vanishing in seconds.

And there was something else. Dakota would have put it down as his imagination except that it was too obvious and too fast a change. Blackness was filling the space between the old streets and the new, an evil-looking, opaque blackness that moved like a mass of angry snakes.

“This day just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?” the Captain said rhetorically.

“You . . . know what that is, sir?” Dakota asked, unable to look away.

“No. Idea. But there is no way in hell it’s good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm going to try and keep to the update schedule this week but cannot promise I'll succeed due to other commitments.  
> \- Also, Lt. Dakota is my own invention, in case that wasn't obvious.


	35. Hell Fire

The Marquis’ sabre smashed the case containing the gilded sword as soon as Mustang danced around behind it, sending shards of glass everywhere. If nothing else, he thought, _that_ should bring Ivan running.

He had lost track of where the gun had gone. That was a Very Bad Thing. The last time he had faced someone with a sword, unarmed, it had been a combination of luck and desperation that had saved him. Mostly luck. Completely luck, now he came to think about it. And while it was highly unlikely that the Marquis was anywhere near as good a swordsman as Fuhrer Bradley, he was certainly good enough to skewer Mustang given half a chance.

The sabre came stabbing at Mustang’s neck. He ducked under it, back-peddling, and managed to catch his side on another cabinet. The sword shattered that one too, thankfully just _after_ he had jumped away. L’enfer, he realised, was lashing out wildly. Not that that really helped much.

Someone was banging on the locked door. Ivan, hopefully. The Marquis came at Mustang again, parting the air so close to his cheek that he thought for a second that he’d been cut. He hadn’t and decided he really wanted to keep it that way. He darted behind a third case and flung it over into L'enfer's path. The distraction was enough to let him make a dash for the door, but of course the key was nowhere to be seen.

His foot caught on the jewelled sword and he scooped it up, thinking that it was better than nothing. It wasn’t. It was unexpectedly heavy and unwieldy and the Marquis knocked it from his grip with ease. His sabre’s pommel smashed into Mustang's face.

The door caved and Ivan exploded into the room. Mustang had no idea how he had known where L’enfer would be but he went straight for him, looking as vicious and angry as Scar ever had, knife flashing wickedly. Only the Marquis moved like lightning and as thunder peeled once more, Ivan slammed against the wall, blood oozing from a gash across his chest. The pommel smashed down again and the big man went over, stunned.

“Stop!”

The Marquis straightened and turned, breathing hard, brow covered in sweat. Mustang sucked air through his teeth. His shoulder was aching and the ruined half of his face was burning, old wounds woken up by new punishment. The fresher cuts on his chest were stinging insistently. “This is insane,” he said hoarsely, “While we’re fighting –”

“The world’s ending,” L’enfer finished and laughed bitterly, “Which makes whatever you’re about to say redundant, don’t you think?”

“We can still do something about it!” Mustang wasn’t sure he believed that but it bought time. He took a step backwards.

The Marquis advanced in turn. “Like what? What can you do? What can _I_ do? We're insects in a hurricane, you idiot! We can’t do anything!” The sabre drew uneven circles in the air. “We’ve got no _control_ over anything any more. I’m not sure we ever had any to begin with. I thought . . . I thought I did. I thought I could control my life, force it to do what I wanted. But . . . everything's been leading to this, hasn't it? All that effort, all that fighting and for what? So that I can die here in my own filth while Chambers tears down the heavens? What are you going to do to stop that? Tell me that!”

Mustang held up his hands. “Look,” he began, reasonably, “If we don’t try to stop this, we might be throwing away a chance to live. I don’t know about you but I’d rather go out trying to –”

“I’M NOTHING LIKE YOU!” the other man roared, swiping at him, almost cutting his throat, “Don't you think I know what you are? What it means to be an alchemist? I have fought for _years_ to force the world to do what I want! All you ever had to do was clap your damn hands!” He sliced again and once more. “I had to seize every chance, take every risk! I cheated! I lied! I became a criminal, a _monster_ to get what I deserved! What did you _ever_ have to do?!”

“You don't know what you're talking about!” Mustang protested, dodging as best he could, “Alchemy isn't the answer to everything! It never has been!”

“Says the man who has lived with it all his life! Do you know what I would have given to be able to turn lead into gold? Or transform matter? The things I could have done . . .”

“I've done some of those things! Believe me, it isn't worth the price!”

The Marquis laughed, soft and low. “Oh, yes . . . you're a monster too, aren't you? Or you could have been. I heard you, whining in your cell. You think that whatever crimes you have committed have soiled your hands. You _worship_ your guilt because you think it makes you a better man. What I would give to live in a world where I had the _luxury_ of guilt!” He trailed off with a sigh. “My men . . . my Templars . . . all gone. All that work, wasted. Shame. I was quite fond of what I had achieved. The wonderful blasphemy of it. But it doesn't matter now.”

His smile was blissful and it came home to Mustang just how hopelessly insane his double was. “We live life on stolen time,” L'enfer mused, drawing circles in the air with his sword, “Do you see that too? We should have died a thousand times. A hundred thousand. But we cheat the reaper. Steal days and hours and minutes. And then he finds us out and makes us pay. Sometimes we even see him coming. I think I can. Chambers woke him up. He's almost here.” He set his feet in a fighting stance, looking Mustang straight in the eye. “I suppose I may as well make the most of the little living I have left.”

He charged and Mustang ran, cannoning into case after case, toppling some, leaving others to be knocked aside by his psychotic pursuer. At one point, he managed to grab up a stool someone had left in the corner and fling it at L’enfer’s head. It staggered him just enough to allow Mustang to drive his shoulder into the other man's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. That little victory lasted seconds at most.

His foot slipped on a stray piece of glass as he tried to evade the Marquis' frenzied retaliation, slowing him down enough for the sword to gouge a chunk out of his back. He yelled and clutched at the wound, tumbling hard against the wall. Instinct made him duck and the Marquis plunged his sabre into the wall, showering Mustang with plaster.

Memories of the fight against Bradley filled his mind. Then, at least, he'd had his alchemy, a weapon he could fight back with. Here, he had nothing but his rapidly diminishing luck.

Driven by pure desperation, he flung his arms around L'enfer's legs and threw them both over. The surprise of it made the madman lose his grip on his sword and it clanked to the floor. Mustang jerked his head up sharply, managing to crack L'enfer on the jaw. Unfortunately, this seemed to cause him more pain than it inflicted. Who knew he had that sharp a chin?

They broke apart and faced each other in half-crouches, then made a synchronised grab for the sword. Mustang got a hand around the hilt but L'enfer brought an elbow down on the back of his neck and he bruised his mouth on the floorboards. He kept his grip though and wrenched the weapon away from the Marquis' grasping hands, managing to get a shoulder into his gut. They crashed back against the wall, hard enough to make them both cry out. L'enfer clawed for the sword, trying to reach it as Mustang tried to get it into a position where he could actually use the damn thing –

A door, one he not even realised was there, opened a couple of hand-spans away and a woman came in, a table-leg in her hands. She looked so much like Hawkeye that for an instant, surprise got the better of him.

The Marquis smashed him in the side of the head and seized the sabre. With the same viper-like speed he had displayed earlier, he darted forward and sent not/possibly/other-Hawkeye's weapon spinning from her hands in a shower of splinters. She froze, trembling as he bore down on her. Mustang could see a smile on the Marquis' lips and wondered if his face ever looked so malevolent.

Then the woman punched L'enfer in the throat, apparently not caring that this meant his sword scored a gash in her arm. They both grunted in pain and fell apart, and Mustang seized the opportunity to make another attack on his double's legs. But the combination of the ringing in his head and attempting the same trick twice ruined any chance of it working. Quick as a spark, L'enfer grabbed the woman and swung her bodily at Mustang, sending them to the floor in an undignified tangle.

Her look of shock when they pulled apart enough that she could see his face was not exactly a surprise. He did his best to interpose himself between her and the Marquis, who was advancing on them both and practically licking his lips. “Elizabeth . . .” He rolled the word around his mouth, tasting it. “This is a stroke of luck. I did so want to say goodbye to you.”

Gritting his teeth, Mustang pushed himself up, thoroughly sick of being kicked to the floor and determined that he was not about to let the lunatic do any more harm. Perhaps if he got enough momentum, he could go through L'enfer's defences even if he got stabbed doing it, give Riza – no, _Elizabeth_ , but did it really matter? – time to escape. The doorway was still invitingly open behind the Marquis –

The tip of the sword materialised in front of Mustang's face, aimed right between his eyes.

“I think you should stop trying now,” L'enfer told him with a frown, “There really is no point.”

“Wait. Stop. Just . . . stop.” There was no room to back away, not without tripping over the person he was trying to protect.

“Oh. Is this chivalry? At the end of the world? Really? She's mine. You've got your own any way.”

“Are you really going to stand there and act like some deranged railway novel villain when we could be trying to find a way to stop all this? Are you so convinced that you have no control over your life that you can't be bothered to _try_ and take that control back?” Mustang was fairly certain he was heading down the wrong line of argument but right then his mouth was basically the only weapon he had left.

L'enfer's frown deepened. “There is no control to take. Solomon, Issacher . . . they're all dead, eaten,  _torn apart_ . Am I supposed to take up arms against carnivorous shadows? Or try to convince the earth to stop shaking?” He sneered. “You're a fool if you believe there is any saving –”

He never finished the insult. Elizabeth flung herself under the wavering blade and jammed a good square foot of broken glass into the Marquis' side, her hands sliced to ribbons by the act. L'enfer doubled over in agony for a second and Mustang got a good, solid kick to the man's gut before he did the sensible thing and pulled Elizabeth with him around the Templar and towards the door –

The sabre came up once more. The Marquis lurched into their path, face twisted and maddened. He was going to die. From the stench, the improvised dagger had punctured his stomach and even if it had not, he would certainly lose a fatal amount of blood. But he was insane and that kept him moving, despite the wound, despite the glass still sticking out of him, and he raised his sword for one final blow that would cleave straight through the two of them.

Mustang braced himself and shoved Elizabeth back behind him, knowing he was going to die, determined no one else was going to. The sword filled the shaking, dying world. _OK, Maes, ready or not, here I come._

He was so convinced it was the end that for a few seconds after the Marquis' throat had exploded in a bloody mess and his body had dropped lifelessly to the floor, his brain was filled with nothing so much as radio static.

Only slowly did he comprehend that he was not only still alive, there was also every possibility of this state of affairs persisting for the foreseeable future. That future might be far shorter than normal but he really was still breathing. His thoughts turned glacially to the question of _how_ that was still the case. He looked up.

Hawkeye stood in the doorway. She was holding, of all things, a crossbow. This she gradually lowered, presumably convinced that it would not be required again. She caught the expression on Mustang’s face and (though he might have imagined it) a faint blush rose in her cheeks. “Sorry sir,” she said with no audible trace of embarrassment, “It took me a while to find the bolts.”

Mustang’s brain checked his memory and found that things had moved so fast that no more than two minutes must have passed since Elizabeth had come in, probably far less. He wondered if that had felt as long for Hawkeye as it had for him.

He also wondered what her reaction would be if he stood up, took her in his arms and kissed her until they ran out of air.

Probably not good, given the circumstances. “Thank you, Hawkeye,” he said instead, meaning it possibly more than anything he had ever said in his life. He sagged, groping for the support of one of the intact cabinets, the adrenaline that had kept him on his feet so far draining away.

She was at his side in what felt like the blink of an eye but surely was a good few seconds at least. He attempted something like a reassuring smile, not completely sure why he was trying. She ripped strips from the sleeves of her shirt and, moving past him, started to bind up Elizabeth's hands.

“Do you have any severe injuries, sir?” she asked as she pulled the makeshift bandages tight.

Mustang looked down at himself and felt along his arms and at the sides of his head, wincing. The small of his back felt like a small bomb crater. “Cuts and bruises. Nothing life threatening. Don't think I'm in any shape for much more of this though – damn! Ivan!”

Unsteadily, he made his way back up the room to where the big man was coming round with much groaning. Luckily for all concerned, it looked like his injuries too were largely superficial. The cut to his chest was not deep and, while groggy, he was at least as alert as Mustang was by the time they limped together back to the other two. Hawkeye ran a critical eye over them, paying close attention to their heads. She knew the stories of soldiers who had dropped dead hours after receiving the blows that killed them just as well as he did. Eventually, she made a small, satisfied sound and agreed that they were going to live. For at least as long as the rest of them.

Elizabeth was staring fixedly at the Marquis' body, as though afraid that if she took her eyes off him, he would get up again. Mustang managed to follow her gaze for only a few seconds before the sight of his own corpse – as good as – forced him to look away. Demonstrably not him though the man had been, the resemblance in death was not something Mustang wished to dwell on. He stepped carefully towards her and gently touched her shoulder. She flinched once at the touch and then again on seeing who it was. “Do you know where Chambers will be?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as far away from L'enfer's purr as possible.

Hesitantly, she shrugged, then pulled away with a frown. “Perhaps. The cellars. Not where we were being held but further along. There was construction work being done down there when I escaped, the same time they were finishing the escape tunnels.”

Mustang looked around, at Ivan sagging and rubbing at his sore head, at Hawkeye recovering the pistol from among the wreckage, at Elizabeth drawing a deep breath and moving firmly away from the corpse. All bruised and bloodied and with barely two weapons between them. The four of them did not make for an overwhelmingly impressive fighting force. But then, who else was there?

He glanced at Hawkeye and tightened his fists. “Then lets go and have a word with him, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

They made it to the top of the stairs before something went horribly wrong. Hawkeye, on point with their single gun, thought that was likely a record.

Living darkness had swallowed the entrance hall. There were eyes everywhere, and teeth everywhere else. Hungry hands clawed up the walls. Mustang swore, Ivan too. Falconer made a strangled noise. Access to the rest of the house or the outside world was well and truly cut off.

“Back up,” Mustang ordered quietly.

“Nein,” Ivan responded, just as softly, gesturing with his blade. Black fingers were curling over the banisters behind them. Inky faces leered at them.

“Damn. Any ideas?”

One by one, they shook their heads. Hawkeye levelled the pistol.

And then, at the centre of the writhing shadows, she saw a single point of light.

A point of light that was getting bigger by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rewriting this fight scene is pretty much the whole reason for the whole Christmas hiatus - sorry about the delay!  
> \- I hope my rewrites improved the fight but still not sure if it's good or not!  
> \- Should be back to the usual update schedule to the end of the fic!


	36. The Saints Go Marching

Somehow, that nothing stood in their way made it worse.

Ed had expected to run into the limbo babies, a whole load of them. He had been certain of it. That was the way his luck went, wasn’t it? If anything could go wrong, it would go wrong, in a way that was infinitely worse than he had ever imagined. Fate, God or whatever had had it in for him for years and never, ever let an opportunity to make his life miserable slide by. That was just a fact.

The tension was, therefore, killing him. Every so often, his auto-mail would creak and he would realise he was squeezing his fist tight enough to strain the plates. A few minutes later he would be doing it again. And a few minutes after that. If something didn’t happen soon, there would be little bits of metal ricocheting off the walls.

They were deep enough into the building that they could no longer hear the rain or the thunder. The only noise came from their footsteps, the shuffling, stuttering sound of a group of people trying to move about as quietly as possible. There was nothing else. Not a whisper. The floor wasn’t moving any more, either. The drumbeat had stopped. There was only a dead, stifling calm.

The others were nervous a hell. Cain was sweating and kept adjusting his grip on the makeshift bomb he was carrying. The other Templar – the one whose name Ed still didn’t know – was no better, constantly trying to see in all directions at once, making him resemble a red-haired owl. Daniel was slightly more collected but he twitched at every sound. With a jolt, Ed remembered they’d left Luke sedated in the infirmary. He found he felt more guilty about that than he thought he should. Still, the man’s hysteria would have been a liability. Lazarus was quiet and evidently terrified.

He had not expected Helen to cope with the situation well. She had just seemed too brittle, too easily spooked. But she seemed to be coping better than the rest of them, adopting a stoic calmness that was, Ed thought, mostly due to Edward, who stuck to her side like glue. _He,_ of course, hadn’t stopped smiling since they’d started out. His pride at his achievement with the sealed walls radiated from his battered, bandaged frame, making him look that little bit taller.

And he already had a couple of inches on Ed anyway. Taking the time to get annoyed about that made him feel slightly better.

They rounded another corner. The stairs down to the basement gaped before them. Ed stopped and frowned. “Where’ve the bodies gone?”

“What d’yah mean?” Daniel demanded, “What bodies?”

“There were bodies. Between here and the infirmary, when we ran there earlier. I haven’t seen them.”

“Maybe he vanished them,” Cain suggested, nervously indicating Edward, “Like the doors.”

“Nah.” Ed pointed at the wall. “The reaction didn’t get this far.”

“Perhaps those shadows . . . came back for them,” said Helen.

“Maybe . . .” Ed’s frown became contemplative. “But why didn’t they eat all of ‘em to begin with? If they were going to, they’d have . . . unless . . .”

“Unless what?” snapped Daniel.

“Unless it’s something to do with how they’re getting through in the first place. There has to be some kinda . . . gap they’re coming through. Maybe it’s the array – the big one beneath us. Maybe they're only able to get out of the lines. And maybe they can only get so far from them. To begin with, anyway.”

“So what?”

“So what you do if there was something holding you back? Like a rope tied round your middle. And every time you ran away, it tugged you back a bit.”

Helen bit her lip. “You would . . . try and pull it out of the wall . . . or whatever the other end was tied to.”

“Yeah. And the only way to do that is to go back and try again. And again. Until it breaks.”

Ed grunted. He took a step towards the stairs. “S’only an idea. Come on.”

“And if yah’re wrong,” Daniel pointed out, “there could be thousands a’ those things waiting for us. Or comin’ up behind us.”

Cain went white and threw a panicked look over his shoulder.

“Or that,” Ed agreed and started downwards.

Faced with the choice of following the one member of their party who seemed to have a clue what to do or staying where they were to wait in the silence for the shadows to wake up again, they voted with their feet. Soon the half-lit tunnel was full of crunching footsteps and the sounds of people manoeuvring their dangerous burdens around the wreckage.

 

* * *

 

The big wooden door had been shut again. Ed walked up and down a couple of feet in front, examining every inch of it and the wall around it. The anteroom seemed impossibly tense, the stale air practically quivering. Like before a thunderstorm, only a hundred times more oppressive. It smelt of dust and ozone and dank earth. And still, nothing else moved or made a noise. At the very least, the shattered joists should have been shifting, the debris should have been settling. But they weren’t. The sounds of seven people breathing filled the suddenly cramped space. The atmosphere was suffocating.

“What are we waiting for?” the unnamed Templar asked.

“Him ta be sure we ain’t gonna die tha moment he opens that,” Daniel retorted, “At least, that had better be tha reason.”

“It is,” Ed growled. He took a deep breath and placed his auto-mail hand against the door. Nothing happened. He moved the hand along and pushed. It swung easily inwards.

Golden light washed out through the gap, throwing their shadows sharply behind them.

Daniel hissed. Ed put his flesh hand over his eyes, squinting. The ring was still there, floating above the centre of the chamber. Everything below it was still _not there_. The gated openings were dark and empty. There was no sign of anything else, human or otherwise. He watched for a while, until he was satisfied that this was not going to change.

“Keep to the edges. Don’t go near the reaction. Put the bombs around the walls. The ones that need mixing go closest to the doors. The ones that need fuses go as far in as the fuses ‘ll stretch. Ones we need to shoot go where you can shoot ‘em.” He plucked a couple of bottles from Cain’s shaking hands. “Then we set it off and run. If this works, _Benedict_ will get dragged back when his reaction stops and then he’ll be in the middle of a collapsing room.” No one asked what would happen if it didn’t.

They edged inside, single-file, splitting up to keep close to the walls. Ed went anti-clockwise, half an eye on the blazing halo. Its light remained constant, a steady and brilliant reminder of just how much power was flowing through Chambers’ reaction. Without warning, his mind went back to a pair of lonely children in an empty house, plotting and scheming, convinced that alchemy could do anything, even turn back time. For so long, he had looked back on his younger self with anger and humiliation. How could he ever have been so naïve? But here he was, standing in front of proof that alchemy really could do anything – even turn the universe inside out. “We’re the closest things to gods.” That’s what he’d boasted to Rose, all those years ago. He’d meant it too – _believed it_ , just as strongly as he had come to believe that he had been utterly wrong. And yet now, he was faced with an alchemist – an insane, amateur alchemist – who was making himself into something that might as well have been a god.

Was something following him around, Ed wondered, waiting for him to start believing something so that it could prove him wrong? That would explain a lot . . .

He snorted softly. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do with the bottles he was carrying, so he just put them next to one of the openings. They would go up with everything else. If everything went to plan. Which was obviously going to be the complicated part. Straightening, he looked around. Helen and Cain were checking over the fuses to their chemicals, each making sure the other’s was fixed properly. Lazarus and the other Templar were doing the same on the opposite side of the room. Edward was watching them curiously. He caught Ed looking and smiled. Ed ignored him and walked around to see where Daniel had got to.

The Havoc imitation was still standing by the door. No. Not standing. He was backing slowly through it. When he saw Ed coming, he stopped and smiled a sickly smile. Ed opened his mouth to ask what the bastard thought he was doing. Too late, he figured out that was the wrong move.

Daniel drew his pistol as fast as Hawkeye and pulled the trigger three times, aiming straight at the bottles he had put near Helen’s. The bottles that Ed knew for certain were ones he had told them to shoot to set off.

There was no time to act. Even if he had been closer, he probably couldn’t have done anything to deflect the bullets. He threw his arm across his face, automatically bracing himself against impending pain as he swore hard enough to turn the air blue.

Nothing happened. He lowered his arm. Daniel was looking at his gun in disbelief.

“Laws in flux!” Edward shouted victoriously.

“Frickin’ double-crossin’ bastard!” Ed howled.

They both ran at the Templar, Edward following Ed’s lead. Wide-eyed, Daniel aimed his useless weapon at them, hands obviously unsteady. They slammed to a stop, scarcely a foot away. His confidence returned for the few brief moments before he noticed that Ed was staring past him. “What the _hell_?”

Daniel whirled. The fat English doctor stood immediately behind him, grinning grotesquely.

Daniel’s yell cut off almost at once. He collapsed backwards, his chest a gaping mess. Graves stepped over him. The grin did not falter. Now fully in the alchemic glare, the lines of black _gunk_ criss-crossing his body were clear for all to see. They completely covered his clothes in some places, wrapping around his limbs and his torso before climbing up to disappear into his hair. Several weaved together at his neck, merging into a crude, ugly half-face, one whose mouth was gaping in hysterical mirth.

Ed swallowed a mouthful of bile. He knew what he was seeing, although he still couldn’t quite believe that it was possible. It had to be like a homunculus, he reasoned, only with the Gate Child on the outside of the body, not infused into it. That was how Eckhart had still been able to think, in her twisted, violent way, after going through the Gate. She had travelled through so quickly that the thing that managed to latch on to her had been dragged out into the other world. Perhaps plastering itself over her had been the only way it had been able to survive.

Then he looked closer and realised what he as really seeing. The bile threatened to come back up. Whatever had happened to Graves, it was not identical to what had happened to Eckhart, not by a long way.

 _She_ had survived having her body infested.

Helen gave a strangled cry. The thing animating Graves’ corpse turned it towards her. Fire suddenly bloomed against its shoulder, stopping it in its tracks. The nameless Templar fumbled with a lighter, reaching for another bottle to throw. Lazarus cowered behind him, ashen and terrified. The Gate Child’s mock-face shifted, its mouth turning downwards. Graves’ arms jerked up. Ed yelled a warning. The Templar hesitated. Black spears erupted from Graves’ hands.

Ed and Edward clapped simultaneously. Energy tore up the floor and catapulted Graves out of the reaction chamber. His form disintegrated mid-flight, ripped to shreds by the violence of the alchemy. Ed spared a glance for the two men who had been transfixed by the spears. There was no help he could give them. Cain yelled a warning.

Oily blackness burst from Graves’ remains, the oh-so familiar coiling mass of hands and eyes. It reared up, filling the doorway, overflowing, impossibly fast, coming straight for them. Edward was directly in its path and he made no effort to move out of the way. His mouth dropped open, an expression of dumbfounded recognition crossing his face.

The limbo creature halted too. And _recoiled_ , its mad, jumbled gaze fixed upon the homunculus man, as utterly confused as he was.

That confusion saved Edward’s life.

Ed heaved him away, practically throwing him towards where Helen stood, screaming his name. Confusion abated, the monster rushed at Ed eagerly. He flung himself out of its path, clapping again. Electric-blue fire sliced through the bodiless creature, but for all the difference it made, he might as well have done nothing. It poured over and around, indifferent to being cut in two.

And if not for the burst of gold that consumed it and eradicated it from any kind of existence, it would have killed him then and there.

The after-image of the blast faded. The room stayed utterly still for exactly as long as it took Ed to get his ragged breathing under control. He knew without a doubt what he would see when he got up but did so anyway. After all, he figured it was probably the only thing left that he could do. He turned round.

Benedict Chambers regarded him impassively from beneath the golden halo.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Only a couple more main chapters to go!


	37. Breaking the Circle

Helen wrapped her arms around Edward and hugged him tight. It was pure reflex, an impulse to somehow do the impossible and protect him from things she could not understand and could scarcely imagine. He shivered once and moaned.

Mr Chambers had parted the emptiness in the middle of the room as easily as one might part a pair of curtains. His hands were clasped behind his back and his suit was as pristine as it had always been. “Mr Elric,” he said, voice as empty of inflection as it had ever been, “are you attempting to attract my attention?” Without waiting for a reply, he looked from one bomb to the next, glasses shining in the light.

Each one _evaporated_ , bottle and all just bubbling away.

“Mother of God,” Cain whispered. His gun dropped from his fingers, clattering on the bare stone. No one paid him any attention.

Mr Elric looked ill. He managed not to sound it though. “Great. Now try that on _yourself_.”

“Your belligerence means nothing. You are insignificant now, a component that no longer has a function.”

With a painful-sounding smack, the young man's hands met. His artificial arm melted and reformed, the whole forearm transmuted into a single blade. Defiantly, he went into a fighting stance, feet planted apart, arms held ready, eyes narrowed.

Mr Chambers did not visibly react. “As you are well aware, any physical assault against me will fail.”

“That so?” Mr Elric's lips peeled back. “Wanna bet that’s gonna stop me?”

“It will not. You are foolish enough to believe that stubbornness is a virtue. _I_ am going to stop you.” With that, Chambers flexed the fingers of his left hand.

Mr Elric screamed, his spine curving backwards, his arms straining in their sockets. In agony, he was pulled from the floor and left to hang suspended, spread-eagle, in thin air, arcs of lightning spitting and writhing around his body. He screamed again. Chambers’ head tilted slightly to one side. “Please understand that I have no wish to kill you. The new alchemists of my world will need guidance that you are eminently qualified to provide. This is is merely to discourage further futile attempts to stop me.”

The tortured boy choked an obscenity, clenching his jaw against the pain.

Edward abruptly twisted out of Helen’s grip. He dashed out to put himself between his double and the man in the glasses. Glaring, he clapped once. Lightning sprang from his feet, playing out over broken stone slabs. The ruined floor heaved itself up into a tidal wave, rushing towards Mr Chambers in a great, molten arc.

He did not so much as blink. The wave crumbled, becoming inanimate rock once more. Mr Elric plummeted with it, luckily stunned with pain so that his bones did not snap when he hit the ground. Edward screeched as he was scooped up in his place and almost casually crushed against the wall above the door.

Helen started forward, driven by an impulse that overrode any desire to survive. Her toe caught on something. She looked down to find Cain’s discarded gun at her feet.

The world seemed to stop.

When she had first met Edward March, he had been fifteen years old, full of an exuberant intelligence that bordered on mania. He was kind, brilliant and away from home for the first time. She had been five years older, an unmarried nurse working at one of the London hospitals. Edward and his sponsor, Professor Van Hohenheim had come to stay at Mrs McKinley’s boarding house, in the rooms below hers. They had first started talking over the evening meal and from then on, she had seen Edward almost every day. She had wondered if the Professor were related to him. They looked a great deal alike. But, no, he was from somewhere on the continent – which explained his accent – whilst Edward was from Gloucestershire. They were both part of the Donovan Organisation, a teacher and pupil in the art of chemistry.

Despite snide comments from her colleagues about ‘her young man’, there was nothing untoward in her relationship with Edward. He was an only child, suffering from home-sickness and intimidated by the dense city streets. She was the second oldest and only girl in a set of five children and still felt pangs from not having her family around her. Despite their differing temperaments, they very much enjoyed each other’s company and together staved off loneliness. They played chess (which she rarely won) and card games (which she usually did). They walked around the parks when the weather was fine. They visited the museums when it was not. Mostly though, they simply sat and talked.

The conversation had inevitably and often been about the war but Edward had always been ready to enthuse about his work, dazzling her with rapid-fire scientific terminology before slowing down and explaining what he was actually talking about. She always laughed when he got halfway through a description and the penny dropped that he had left her behind five minutes ago. He would go bright red and sheepishly ask where he had lost her.

He was not perfect. No one was. Not being able to understand something would make him irritable and short tempered. Sometimes, he was snappish with people without really meaning to and he would gobble his food down as though he did not have the time to waste on such necessities. And he could bury himself in books so deeply that he missed what was going on around him. But he was no worse in those regards than any other boy trying to work out how to grow up and she had come to care for him a great deal.

The air raid cut their friendship cruelly short. The Professor had been the one who told her, breaking the news with extraordinary gentleness. There had been tears in his eyes. She had not seen him again after that. She often wished she had, so that she could have told him of the miracle, the misstep of fate that had returned Edward to her.

Each day, as the impossible happened and he oh so very slowly recovered from his injuries, she would swear to herself that they would walk along the Thames again, even if it took half a lifetime. Graves’ ghoulish ambitions to be heralded as some sort of genius healer could not have meant less. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was seeing him standing and smiling, proudly showing off his latest achievement.

And, of course, now she had seen that. Not as she had imagined and she supposed they would never walk by the river after all, but that was not the point. The point was that he was alive and whole.

And she discovered, quite suddenly, that she was willing to do anything to stop that being taken away from him.

She knelt and picked the gun up. It was heavy and ugly. She raised it, taking aim, drawing on memories of her older brother’s light-hearted attempts to teach her how to shoot. Chambers had his back to her, his attention on Edward. She did not hesitate. Alan would have thought it terribly bad form to attack a man when his back was turned. She did not care.

The gun kicked. Once. Twice. Three, four times. Edward fell from the wall and sprawled next to Mr Elric. Helen felt her arms drop to her sides, unable to keep the pistol levelled.

Chambers turned around. He plucked the bullets from where they had stopped, a hand’s breadth from his skin. He looked at her.

She saw herself reflected in his spectacles. She was smiling.

 

* * *

 

Ed’s eyes did not want to open but he made them. Every cell in his body was shouting in outrage. He shoved their complaints aside and fought for focus.

Edward lay to his right, a jumble of thin limbs and bandages. Chambers was turning away, releasing them both. He was holding something. Cain was flat against the wall. Helen stood in front of him, smiling, a gun held limply in her hand.

Ed tried to call out to her, to tell her to run. Chambers made a dismissive flicking motion.

The bullets caught her in her stomach and threw her into Cain’s arms. They both went down.

Pure, undiluted hatred filled Ed's brain. The shock of adrenaline that followed rushed down into his legs and made them _move_. He was mid-jump before it registered with his brain that Edward was going for Chambers as well, howling like a wounded animal, striking the man at chest height, clawing at his face. With passionless ease, the attack was turned aside, the ragged homunculus man knocked senseless by a rush of force. Furiously, Ed swung the auto-mail blade, throwing all his strength behind it.

It connected with the golden halo.

The explosion shook the room.

When his vision cleared, Ed was back on the floor and his arm was gone. The socket had been cracked open and all that was left of the rest was a few blacked chunks of shoulder. If that weren’t bad enough, the halo was completely unaffected.

“You knew that that would not work,” Chambers told him calmly, “If you cannot appreciate the impotency of your position, I fear I shall have to incapacitate you via far cruder means.” He pointed.

Ed’s leg – the pioneering example of Rockbell auto-mail that had survived battle, dismantlement, monsters and Elrics without failing, the testament to Winry’s skill and the technology of another world – went to pieces. The plates and tubes, the joints and motors, the nuts and bolts, they all came apart in a clinking cascade, leaving him surrounded by a sea of components. His balance shifted, he lurched and had to put his remaining arm out to brace himself.

Chambers folded his hands behind his back. “I have work to complete. That the Hunger was able to enter this room was distraction enough. I cannot afford to allow you to hold my attention away from the Gate any longer.” He made to close the nothingness around him. Ed wanted to scream. He wanted to do something, anything to not just sit there and dumbly watch Chambers get away.

He couldn’t make a noise and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Damnit, this wasn’t _fair_!

 

* * *

 

Benedict Chambers prepared to return to the task of remaking creation. There was no description for the experience of reconstructing the Gate, of taking one Truth and replacing it with another. The most imaginative poet in two worlds could not have conceptualised what it was like to wield such a form of alchemy. It existed on a level so truly fundamental that any attempt to encapsulate it in the feeble grunting of a select group of higher primates was doomed to absolute failure. If one believed in God, one would have been of the opinion that it was an act worthy of the Almighty.

Mr Chambers did not believe in God. He believed in the essential malleability of reality and that everything within its bounds could be manipulated. He believed that alchemy had for too long been squandered by people who were complacent and ignorant and who had no real notion of how powerful a resource they had at their disposal. He believed that he would be able to change all things about until they were set in a way that would be beneficial to his world. He believed that to attempt this feat was the logical and correct response to the circumstances.

Above all, he believed he was right.

He began to take the step back to the place in between, to resume the transmutation briefly interrupted by the presence of alien bodies in the reaction system. The Hunger was a nuisance, an unavoidable contaminant that needed to be flushed out. Venting the stronger parts into the surrounding universes had been a successful tactic but one that risked them interfering with the main array. Fortunately, he had been able to counter that interference without –

Something tickled the edge of his heightened senses. Something distinctly familiar and immensely unwelcome.

He turned back to the chamber with the faintest of frowns The source of the troubling sensation was immediately identifiable. The doorway was steadily flooding with golden light, a tide of radiance sweeping down the passage towards him.

Mr Chambers drew his power a little closer, knitting it into new shapes, ready to let a little of it loose, to rework the matter and forces and defend himself and his efforts from those who would see them undone.

Two figures walked out of the light, hand in hand. They drew the radiance with them and it settled around their shoulders like a cloak. The boy held a staff. The girl held nothing at all.

He recognised who they outwardly appeared to be, recognised Alphonse Elric and the gypsy clairvoyant who had no name but Noah.

But he also recognised who they had become, who it was that now looked out through their eyes at him.

The Gatekeepers had come to do battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm still in two minds over whether killing Helen is the right beat for the story. It seems a very typical thing to have done but on the other hand, it feels like a natural consequence of the circumstances.  
> \- To the best of my knowledge, Helen is not supposed to be the counterpart of anyone in Amestris. Unless my subconscious has done it again, this remains the case.  
> \- It should be borne in mind that at this point, Chambers is able to manipulate fundamental forces with alchemy. I point this out merely to explain why he's suddenly able to use the Force on people.


	38. Killing the Truth

Once, half a lifetime ago, Alphonse Elric had been the Philosophers Stone. Not held it, not used it. _Been_ it. For a few brief weeks, his soul had been bound not to a suit of ancient armour but to a mobile mass of red stone, coursing with an incredible amount of power. It had been horrible – knowing how many people had died to provide the fuel for the stone, it could hardly have been otherwise – but he had also felt like the only thing that kept him from flying was force of habit. He had been so _light_ , so free of any kind of limitation that it had made him giddy. Ed had worn himself out trying to keep up. Al could have carried him easily if he had let him. He could have carried a _train_.

That was the nearest he had ever come to what it felt like to have the Gatekeepers soaring through him.

They flowed around him and Noah, transmuted to light, colouring the world until it shone with a thousand different hues. He could see, actually _see_ the alchemy crackling through the room, see the paths it was taking in trails of juggled molecules and electrified atoms. People were tangled knots of chemical processes, quick-stepping through a slow burn from conception to dissolution. The transformations wrought upon the world were rifts and cracks, disconnected physics grinding against one another as they tried to occupy the same space.

If he focused, Al could see from one end of the universe to the other, from the start of history to the end of time. The Truth vibrated in every particle, entirety spooling out of every quanta. He could see it distorted many times over, different versions fighting for dominance. And past that, past the alchemy that was busy reworking the cosmos, past the aftershocks of the detonation that had so fatally wounded the Gate, he could see the epicentre.

He had not known what he was doing when he tried to bridge the worlds. Neither had his father. The same impulse, the same desperate love had driven them to wrench the gates wide open and span the divide. They had only wanted to bring Ed home. But they had no true conception of what they were doing. They understood the mechanism but not the implications.

Together, blindly, they had warped history backwards and forwards so that the two sides could touch. Their arrays had conjured up absurd coincidences and the shrapnel of their transmutations had fallen as anachronisms in all directions. No wonder the Gate buckled under the strain. No wonder he was now being called upon to face the consequences.

Noah's thoughts murmured in his soul and Al focused on the here and now, on the people around them. One of the Templars was cradling a woman’s body and without a trace of doubt, he knew she was dead. A younger man was slowly, painfully pulling himself over towards her, his face and hair so like Ed’s but his body whole and full of a deep emptiness. Al wished there was something he could do for all the power that was pouring into the two of them, life and death still lay out of reach. The Gatekeepers had brought him there to do one thing and one thing alone, and restoring Helen Jameson was not it.

Ed lay on the floor, surrounded by fragments of his auto-mail. He was looking up at Al and Noah, face a picture of utter shock. Al couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “Don’t worry brother.” The Gatekeepers did something to his voice, making it echo over and over. “Everything’s going to be all right.” It felt good to be the one saying that for a change, saying it and meaning it.

They walked slowly on into the room, facing the man they had come to challenge. Benedict Chambers had so much alchemy wound around his body that Al wondered how he could possibly move. Every shade and every shape in the universe was there, an entire cosmos of knowledge bound into a single pattern and _twisted_ together.  The sheer weight of it all made the world bend and crack. It was wrong. It had no right to be there, not like that.

Chamber raised his hands and brought them together. Array after array wove between his fingers, so many they were blinding. Diligence whispered to Al and told him to strike his staff on the ground. He did and suddenly the arrays fell apart, the energy streaming into the wood, earthed. The floor repaired itself, the stone slabs smoothed back down. More arrays formed, harsher, destructive. Those too were dragged down and the anteroom outside was mended, the beams lifted back into place, the walls closed up. _Again_ , Chambers drew invisible circles with his mind and _again_ , they drained away. The staff grew hot in Al’s hand.

It was just a piece of wood. Nothing had been done to it to make it into an alchemic conduit. Nothing needed to be. The colossal energies passing through it repaired it as fast as they burnt it up and then the power was dispersed, flickering away into the biggest array Al had ever created. Not that he really _had_ created it. It was there waiting for him, ready-made.

The curve of the earth is not a perfect circle. But no circle you can draw in the real world can ever be perfect.

 

* * *

 

Noah’s head was awash with voices.

High and deep, loud and soft, male and female, they rose and fell around her, sounding like nothing so much as a forest in the wind. It should have been overwhelming. But it wasn't. Instead, it was breathtaking. The Gatekeepers let her touch every mind that ever was and ever would be. They unlocked the doors in her mind and a million million million souls poured through in a ceaseless rustle of hopes and dreams and fears and desires. She was the hawk, riding the thermals of a thousand sleepless nights. The boat carried along a river of inspiration and discovery. The star whirling in the tides of a hundred galaxies.

One voice shouted to be heard over the rest, to drown them out with an opera of buzzing numbers. It filled the sky of her mind with images of crumbling ruins and new bricks, trying to wall her in and rework the symphony she channelled.

Chambers, tiring of his failure to beat Al with alchemy, attacking them with the force of his will, backed by the power of the Gatekeeper he had imprisoned within himself.

Noah smiled. How often had her voice become lost in a crowd, her singing drowned by those around her? That was what Chambers was attempting to do now, the pounding engines of his ideas flung at her in an attempt to assert his beat and his tempo above all else.

For so long, she had thought of her power only in terms of the images she stole from other people's memories. They called her a thief and so she believed herself. But Ed and Al had shown her that her abilities could let her share lives, not just peer into them. Their kindness echoed in her still, would always be there. A gift, freely given.

She did not just take images from people. She shared their essence, their humanity, their failings and their triumphs, the good, the bad and the normal. All her life, she had been told that she was an outsider. And yet no one was an outsider to her. She knew them now, all of them. She understood them. She spoke for them.

Chambers wished to shout her down. He tried to smoother her, to strangle her, to wear her down with the screams of dying children and the shrieks of carrion crows. He dredged up the worst things he could find and brought them thundering down on her. But she was all those things and more. She was everyone. All the lives he wanted to transform, heedless of their wishes. He was a chorus of change, a symphony of alchemy and ambition.

But she was Diligence and Patience and Abstinence and she could sing in every voice that had ever lived.

They were evenly matched. He could not break her, she would not break him.

 

* * *

 

Stalemate.

Chambers dismissed his alchemy. He stared at Al and Noah expressionlessly. “How are you countering me?”

Al smiled. “Is something wrong?”

“You should not have such power.”

The boy let go of Noah's hand and started walking clockwise around the edge of the central array. “Are you sure?”

Noah began to walk in the opposite direction. “Why shouldn’t we?” she asked.

Chambers did not answer, nor did he make a move to keep them in his line of sight.

“It’s about knowledge,” Al explained benignly.

“About the Truth,” Noah added.

“Knowing how the world works is how we change it.”

“The Truth _is_ the way the world works.”

“The Gatekeepers were born from the Truth.”

“And we are the Gatekeepers.”

“So we know everything they know.”

“So we know everything,” she stated.

“Therefore we have the power to stop you,” he concluded.

They were directly behind Chambers now. He did not reply. They kept walking. “Your premise is flawed,” he said eventually, “Your Truth is gone. I have dismantled it. I have transformed it. It can give you no power.”

“Because you have put your truth in its place?” Al asked lightly.

“Yes.”

Noah smiled but kept silent. Al gave the impression of thinking hard. “How did you do that?”

“I broke your Gate,” Chambers answered coldly, “Your Truth died with it.”

“The Truth can’t die,” objected Noah.

“If it could,” argued Al, “it wouldn’t be the Truth.”

“That is incorrect,” came the response, “You appear to have forgotten that I have had access to all that you know.”

“Oh, yes . . .” Noah frowned. “You captured Kindness.”

“I know what she knows. I am well aware that ‘the Truth’ is mutable. Through it, reality is decided. Thus, by changing the Truth, I have changed reality.”

They came round in front him again and Al glanced at Chambers without breaking step. “But the Truth is decided by reality. It’s made from the souls of everyone who has ever lived. That means you’ve got it backwards.”

“The flow of time has no bearing on these matters. A change in one will be reflected in the other. Replacing one Truth with another has replaced one reality with another.”

“But you haven’t changed reality,” Noah persisted, “We can still use our Truth against you.”

Chambers’ eyes twitched ever so slightly. “Clearly an anomaly due to the incompleteness of the transmutation process.”

“Are you sure?” Al sounded surprised. “A moment ago you were saying we couldn’t possibly have any power.”

“A hasty conclusion. I expected to have effected a greater change by now. This distraction must have reduced the rate at which my work is progressing.” Thus satisfied that he had resolved the situation, Chambers willed himself to recommence his transit back to the Gate.

Something prevented him from doing so.

He lifted his head a fraction and, for the first time, turned to look directly at the younger man. “What are you doing?” His voice was very quiet.

Al spoke just as quietly. “According to you, we can’t be doing anything.”

“I have revised my analysis. What are you doing?”

“Why don’t you tell us? You’re the one who’s ‘replacing’ the Truth.”

Silence fell. It lasted nearly half a minute, broken only by footsteps. “You are creating a circle,” Chambers said at last, “Using alchemy to counteract mine.”

This time, it was Noah who smiled. “Yes. And you can’t stop us.”

“Nor can you stop the reaction I have begun.”

“We don’t have to.”

Taking up the conversation again, Al adopted the tone of a lecturer trying to correct an over-enthusiastic student. “You still think you’ve done what you wanted to do. That what you saw in Kindness’ mind and what you thought you saw are the same thing. But what if you got it backwards? What if what you think is the cause is really the effect? You think by changing the Truth you can change everything. But what if to change the Truth, you’d have to change everything? The Gate’s in everyone, after all . . .”

“Those are reflections of the true Gate.” Chambers blinked. “I am not misinterpreting the information.”

“You’re human,” Noah told him, “How could you understand all of it?”

“I have taken Kindness within me,” he stated bluntly, “I have all her faculties at my command.”

“Really? Then tell me what a bat thinks when it flies. Tell me what it feels like to swim in the deepest sea. Tell me what a star sounds like when it’s born.”

“Those are meaningless.”

“No.” Al’s staff hit the flags with a loud crack. “They are part of the Truth. Kindness would understand those things. You cannot. You are human. And you cannot be one of us. No matter how much of her power you took, you could only believe, could only see what you wanted to.”

“You are incorrect.”

Al shook his head. “No. You’ve convinced yourself to see things one way. You can’t see that it could be wrong. But that doesn’t change the Truth that you are. The Gates in people aren’t the reflections. The one you broke down is. It’s a reflection of your Gate.”

“You aren’t transmuting the universe,” Noah finished, “You’re transmuting yourself.”

“You are lying,” Chambers accused slowly.

“We cannot.”

“We speak only the Truth.”

“The Truth that still exists.”

“The Truth that you have not broken.”

It no longer mattered which of them was speaking. Their voice was the same. “You have opened the way for forces you can’t control. But you haven’t harmed the Truth. It’s greater than you. Greater than anything. You are part of it. It is part of you. You have only changed yourself. You know we cannot lie. This is the Truth.”

They kept walking. Chambers stood beneath his halo, as still as stone. His mouth thinned, his lips pressed tightly together. His nostrils flared a little. And then he frowned.

It was not a deep frown. It was a curious, quizzical frown, the frown of someone spotting something in their work that does not quite make sense. Somewhere, the equations seemed to have gone astray, to have done something counter-intuitive. As doubts go, it was vague and ill-formed and, above all, brief. The equations did add up. They did make sense.

And yet . . .

 

* * *

 

The universe tilted on its axis. The Gate opened. Not the edifice, the image drawn from a species’ collective imagination and superimposed over the top, but the heart of the matter, the bridge between worlds that lay beneath. Gold and white broke loose, thoughts and ideas thundering free. Al and Noah and Gatekeepers were swallowed by it, flung into an ocean with no end and no beginning.

They/He/She swam through the waves with ease. It was what she/they/he had been born to do. Down and down he/they/she went, back into the past – or what was called the past or what had once been the past – back until they/she/he reached the place where the waves began to wash in different directions, the point at which that first tiny pebble had struck the surface.

It did not look like much, seen from that angle. A man sitting before a fire, scratching lines onto parchment, murmuring softly and brushing powder onto his work. He traced the edges of his drawings. He focused. He prayed. He desired.

He flickered between two versions of himself, two outcomes in superposition. A spark hovered between them, a fluttering butterfly of a thing. Nothing grand, nothing brilliant. Just a spark. Pain and struggle and power had their teeth in that spark, straining to push it away from one of those men and towards the other. The effort to shift it even half that distance had brought everything in existence to the very edge of collapse.

To them/her/him, it was nothing to push it back to where it was meant to be.

One of the arrays glowed for a few seconds and the dust changed colour. One of the arrays did nothing.

As it always had been. As it always would be.

 

* * *

 

The ring of golden light vanished.

Chambers gasped. His face lost all colour and he buckled at the knees. A figure stood in the space he left behind, a figure with obsidian skin dressed in a long white cloak.

Kindness laid her fingers on Chambers' head. Something curled out from him, a wisp of smoke rising from his eyes that bore for a moment the shape of a man. Another followed that could have been a boy with no arm and no leg. More came. Men, women, children. Envy leered as he evaporated. Falconer faded. The Marquis vanished. Hohenheim of Light seemed to pause and smile. The ruin of Huskisson silently screamed its way out of existence.

When they were all gone, the man left on the floor trembled and shook, fingers scrabbling uselessly to pick the broken frames of his glasses from the floor. His eyes were wide and unfocused and raw, primal horror was written in every line of his face.

Kindness knelt beside him and rested her head against the side of his. “Goodbye, Benedict,” she whispered.

The shadow of a thin arm felt its way up Chambers’ back. Then a second crept over his leg. A third wrapped itself around his throat. More and more came, the Hunger grasping and clawing at him. Kindness stood, standing back. He looked up at her once, mute, terrified, lost.

The blackness closed around him and he was gone.

 

* * *

* * *

 

In Rush Valley, people began to emerge into the sun, unsure whether to trust that the sky had stopped falling. Winry and Paninya limped outside, clutching at each other for support, as dumbfounded and uncomprehending as the rest.

 

* * *

 

Havoc watched as the black cloud beneath the road folded over and over on itself until I vanished completely. He and Dakota staggered away from the crevice, looked at one another and as one man sank to the blessedly still ground.

The captain fumbled for his cigarettes. “OK,” he breathed, hands unsteady as he struck a match, “Why the hell was it a bad idea to move the capital again?”

 

* * *

 

“Mom! The sky’s not shaking anymore!” Tawny leant back in Rose’s arms, staring upwards in awe. Around them, the people of Liore were murmuring and pointing. Someone began to sing. Soon half the city seemed to have joined it.

All Rose could do was hold onto her son and hug him as tight as she could.

 

* * *

 

Pinako Rockbell ran a critical eye over the damage to her house. Den limped up to the old lady’s side and flopped down with an exhausted whine.

She snorted and began picking up broken pots.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I have no idea if the rewritten version makes any more sense than the original. It does at least make it clearer what caused the mess, if not how they get out of it!  
> \- It's not entirely clear how long Al was the stone from the series: exactly how long it takes for him and Ed to travel from Liore to Risenbool is not made explicit, nor how long it takes Ed and Izumi to get to Central once he's kidnapped. I went with a few weeks because that seems to give enough time for travelling those distances.  
> \- I know there's nothing explicit in the series about time being meaningless to the Gate but I figured that it must be given the presence of an atom bomb image a decade and a half early and Ed ending up in 1916 the first time and 1921 the second, despite the two trips being (at most) a couple of hours apart. I basically took that idea and ran with the implications.


	39. Worlds Apart

Ed stared at his brother and tried to think of something to say.

Al and Noah were still glowing like Roman candles, which was partly a good thing because without them the chamber would be in total darkness. Mainly it was just immensely disturbing.

His tongue finally and reluctantly came unglued from the bottom of his mouth. “What the frickin’ hell just happened?” Which, under the circumstances, was surely a more calm and controlled response than anyone could have reasonably expected from him.

Al grinned a grin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an insanely happy five-year old. “We stopped him!”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I can see that. _How_?!”

“We made him doubt.” Noah came up beside Al and took his hand again, looking exhausted but just as happy. “That was all we had to do.”

“What . . .” Ed frowned and pointed at Kindness, who still stood in the middle of the room, her hands folded demurely inside her cloak. “You said I had to kill Chambers’ truth.”

“I did,” she acknowledged, “That is what you witnessed.”

“His truth . . . died?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like when Envy pretended to be Winry,” Al explained, “I knew it wasn’t her but for a second, I wasn’t sure what to think. That’s what we did to him. We confused him. He couldn’t be sure if he had got things right, just for a moment. And that let the Gatekeepers in to his reaction so they could reverse it. At least, that's sort of what they did. That bit's kind of difficult to explain.”

“Just that bit?!” Ed pushed himself into an awkward sitting position. “Why are you _glowing_? How is that even . . . the Gatekeepers . . . are they doing that?”

Al and Noah exchanged glances. “They . . .” Al began.

“They needed us,” Noah said, “To carry them for a while.”

“They did the hard work but we had to be the ones who spoke to him. It’s . . . What we told him was _mostly_ true . . . and he thought we were being possessed by the Gatekeepers, so he knew, or thought he knew, that we couldn’t be lying and . . .”

“What do you mean ‘mostly true’?” Ed demanded, “And what do you mean, he _thought_ you were possessed? If you're not, what the hell is with the glowing and the funny voices?”

“Err . . . well . . . Chambers really was doing what he thought he’d done. Mostly. He’d really made alchemy work here! It was unstable but it was working! And I used that to block his transmutations. It was easy, really. They told me what to do and I . . . did it.”

“Well what explains everything,” Ed muttered. He rocked forward and kneaded his eyes with his hand. “Waitaminute. So when you said Chambers hadn't actually changed the Truth or whatever . . .”

“The Gatekeepers have a copy of the Truth,” Al told him, “That’s what they are, between them. That’s how they can do so much – how _we_ could do so much. But that's all. Just a copy.”

“So you were just – _lying_?”

Al shrugged in embarrassment. Ed thought he was blushing though it was hard to tell. “We had to. It was the one thing he knew for certain that the Gatekeepers couldn't do. So that’s what they had to do. Had to get us to do for them while they made it look like they were controlling us. I’m not sure what they're really doing. It's like they’ve transmuted themselves into light and thought and . . . err, the important thing is that it looked like we were being possessed, so he’d think that they were in control and so would be confused when they – um, we told him things he knew couldn't be true..”

Ed stared speechlessly at his younger brother, a kid who hadn't been able to tell a convincing lie when he'd been an expressionless hunk of hollow metal.

He was going to say something but movement across the room distracted him and when he looked to see what it was, any thought of further questions flew away.

Edward was sitting by Cain, Helen’s head resting in his lap. He was gently stroking her hair, talking to her in cracked half-sentences. The Templar was awkwardly patting him on the shoulder and looking thoroughly miserable. Grimly, Ed dragged himself towards them, Al and Noah trailing after him.

“Come back,” he heard as he got closer, “Wake . . . up . . . come . . . back . . . please.”

The homunculus man looked up as Ed reached him. There were damp trails on his cheeks. “Please . . . help her . . . I . . . don’t . . . know what to do . . .”

Something in Ed’s chest tightened. “Al . . . ?” he asked hollowly.

“I don't think there's anything we can do,” his brother murmured, “She’s . . .ah!”

The light around him lifted away. Noah gasped as well, the same thing happening to her. Moving like fog, it ran together and coalesced beside Kindness. The next instant, all seven Gatekeepers stood together. Edward gaped, then called to them.

“Help . . .her . . .please . . . ?”

“We cannot,” Kindness answered sadly, “Her life has ended. That is Truth now.”

A sob caught in Edward's throat. He began to cry properly, thick tears rolling silently down his face. Cain shifted, clearly unsure what to do. Ed struggled nearer and managed to balance well enough to put his hand on Edward’s arm. Like a child, the boy reached across to grip on to Ed’s fingers.

“We must leave,” Diligence said, voice reverberating around them, “The Gate will be healed only when all are where they should be. Alchemy must be gone from this world, as it was always supposed to.”

“What about the General?” Ed asked gruffly, flicking a frown over his shoulder. “And Hawkeye. We can’t leave them behind.”

“Right here, Fullmetal.” Dusty and damp and barely holding each other up, Mustang and Ivan appeared in the doorway. Hawkeye followed, supporting a pale, shaken Falconer, just as worse for wear. The General nodded at Al. “I see you two have stopped glowing.” He frowned down at Ed, taking in what had happened. “I'm sorry we couldn't reach you in time to be of any help, Fullmetal.”

“Yeah, well. How did you get down here?”

“Alphonse and Noah saved our lives,” Hawkeye told him, “We were under attack by a group of shadow creatures and they drove them off.

“We were told to keep well back until things had . . . stopped,” Ivan grated in German, hostile gaze flicking around the room, “Since they now have, here we are.”

“Makes sense. Not much you could have done anyway.” Ed glanced at Edward, then back at Kindness and the other Gatekeepers. “OK, so we’re all here. What happens now?”

“We will transfer the array and all its contents ,” the tallest Gatekeeper boomed, “thus ensuring that only negligible traces of matter from the other world remain in this.”

“Transfer? As in through the Gate?” Al shook his head, trying to clear it perhaps. “That can't be safe!”

“We will protect you,” another of the hooded beings assured him.

Mustang raised his eyebrow. “If everything within the array is going to go home, we should probably let the people who live here get clear.”

Falconer pulled away from Hawkeye, forcing herself to stand without help. “I don't claim to understand any of this but do I take it that means we should remove ourselves to a safe distance?”

“Yeah. You, Ivan, Cain and No –” Ed brought himself up short.

Al still had hold of Noah's hand. He set his jaw and spoke to the Gatekeepers. “Could she come with us? Without anything going wrong? You only need alchemy to stop here. So . . . if she came to our world . . . would that do any harm?”

Ed saw Noah's hand tighten around Al's. He scowled at the pair, unsure of what to make of what he was seeing. Kindness inclined her head.

“If that is what she wishes. There is no danger. However,” she added, meeting Noah’s eyes, “you will not pass through the Gate unchanged. Nothing can.”

Noah bit her lip, emotions playing out across her face. Was that fear? Uncertainty?

“You shouldn’t come if you don't want to,” Ed told her, “Really. If you're not sure –”

That of all things made up her mind. “I still want to go,” she said firmly, “How can I stay here after this?”

Al broke into another grin.

It quickly faded. Cain stood up, lifting Helen’s body. Edward jumped to follow, nearly flooring Ed as he did so. The mercenary bowed his head to those around him. “Sirs . . . ladies . . .” His voice trembled. “I . . . also don’t pretend to understand this. But I would like . . . very much . . . _not_ to leave this world. M-miss Falconer . . . I can’t . . . It would be the least I could do to lead you out of this place. And . . . to do whatever is necessary to see that this poor lady is given a fitting burial.” He waited for a response, as still as a man in fear of his life can be.

Ed grunted. “Can you help me up, Edward?”

Startled at being called by name, the homunculus man jumped, rubbing at his reddened eyes. He lifted Ed and let him put his arm round his shoulders.

“You do that,” Ed said to Cain, “You’re right. It is the least you can do.” Cain flinched but said nothing back. Ed relented slightly. “Thanks for helping. You did the right thing.” He switched languages, ignoring the relief that the other man was very obviously feeling, “You want to come see my home, Ivan?”

The big man snorted. “You and your brother have made my life very interesting, Ed Elric. As much as I like you, I am becoming tired of chasing around the countryside while being shot at. I will leave you to your world and stay in mine.” He raised a warning finger. “But I will come after you if you do not look after Noah.” He strode over to Noah and bent to kiss her forehead. She smiled and the edges of his mouth turned slightly upwards. “Watch them. You might be able to stop them walking off a cliff while they gawk at the sky.”

“I will,” she promised.

Falconer cleared her throat and held out her hand to Hawkeye. “Thank you. For . . . well . . . saving my life.”

They shook. “What will you do now?” the captain inquired.

“Go back to England, I suppose. I _am_ still a member of His Majesty’s intelligence services. I shall give my report. It may get me thrown in an asylum but I have my duty.” She almost laughed. “I suddenly feel very unafraid of the future. To have survived what happened here . . . I don’t think anything else will ever be so frightening.”

“Good,” Hawkeye said, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Falconer paused then turned to Mustang. “And . . . thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, “Thank _you_ for saving _my_ life.” He saluted.

Ivan and Cain walked to the door. Falconer hurried to join them. And so did Edward.

“Hey, stop!” Ed bellowed as he was dragged along, “Where are you going?”

Edward stopped and frowned, perplexed. “Home,” he said, “To take Helen home.”

A dead, awkward silence fell. Ed broke it. “You can’t. You’ve got to come with us.”

“Wh . . . why? Why?”

“Because you do. You can’t stay here, not in this world. You’re . . . you can do alchemy and you’re a . . . I’m sorry. You just can’t.”

Uncomprehending, Edward blinked rapidly. “But . . . I . . . belong here? In . . . in London . . . home . . . w-with Helen . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Ed repeated helplessly, “What you’ve . . . become . . . it’s . . .”

The Gatekeepers began to fan out, forming a circle around the people left inside the room. Those surrounded drew closer to one another, Mustang to Hawkeye, Al to Noah. The others hovered on the threshold, staring at Edward.

“I’ve got to come with you?” he repeated haltingly.

“Yes,” Ed told him, “We can’t let anyone who can do alchemy stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

“He is correct,” the tall Gatekeeper confirmed, “There would be too great a risk of all this happening again. We cannot allow that.”

Golden light spread from each gaunt figure, rushing around the chamber in blazing ribbons.

“Go!” Al yelled to Ivan, Falconer and Cain, “Get above ground! Out of the array!”

“Find Anna!” Ed shouted, “She’s a nurse – she should have got outside the compound!”

“Jah!” Ivan boomed over his shoulder.

“Good luck!” Falconer called.

Cain was already running.

The light closed over the doorway. The ribbons whirled faster and faster, becoming a storm, an incandescent hurricane. Size and distance warped. The Gatekeepers doubled, trebled in height, the space between them and the humans contracting until they had formed a living wall against the tumult.

“They don’t waste time, do they?” Mustang commented dryly.

Edward had gone rigid, rooted to the spot with Ed still hanging onto him. A faint wail escaped his lips.

“Hey.” Ed tapped fingertips against Edward’s collarbone. “It’s gonna be OK.”

The homunculus man shuddered. “No . . . no . . . it’s not . . .”

Ahead of them, above them, around them, felt rather than seen, the Gate opened.

 

* * *

 

Anna Simons leant against a tree and fought for breath. It had been twenty minutes since she had been able to get clear of the institute's boundary and twenty years since she had been in any fit shape to run as fast as she had. Now, some little way above the broken fence, she had a perfect view back down to the mansion.

The storm was gone. Not blown over, not moved on to wreak fresh havoc elsewhere, no, simply . . . gone. Disappeared, as though God had flicked a cosmic switch and turned it off. Perhaps that was exactly what had happened. Perhaps He had seen what Mr Chambers had been up to and had decided enough was enough. Anna rather liked the image of the hand of the Almighty descending to squash the icy little man. He fully deserved it, she thought, for unleashing such catastrophe upon them. Which might not have been very Christian of her but then again, she was convinced even a saint would have felt wrathful towards someone so steeped in devilry as Mr Chambers obviously was.

From her vantage point, she could see one or two people who had also managed to blunder their way out of the cloying, soaking darkness conjured up by the storm. The ones who had been brave enough to stay, anyway. She made no attempt to approach them, since they were all quite clearly as criminal as their master. They lingered at various safe distances, presumably wavering between the urge to run a mile and to return to see what had become of their fellows. Given the screaming that had haunted the rain, that was unlikely to have been anything good.

One of the figures suddenly started pointing and shouting to another, jumping up and down while waving at the mansion. Anna squinted, trying to make out what he was so excited about. Eventually, she spotted a group of three, all of them running hell for leather towards the open countryside. As they came closer, she saw that one of them, clothed in the black uniform of the Marquis’ men, was carrying something. Closer still and she was able to discern that his burden wore a plain dress, not unlike the one she herself was wearing.

Her heart sank. Damn that boy. She had expressly told him to keep them all safe. She should have known that he would not manage it.

Further recriminations were interrupted by the screech of tortured masonry. The house was crumbling in on itself, sinking into the ground as if its foundations had just been pulled from beneath it. Bricks and tiles came cascading down in every direction, this last crescendo of destruction echoing across the countryside. The running people cleared the edge of the forsaken place just as its final remains were shaken apart.

Anna Simons lowered herself to the grass and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

 

* * *

* * *

 

The Gatekeepers hid everything beyond themselves, forming a sort of capsule. Their cloaks had billowed out, creating a seamless barrier between the tiny humans in their midst and everything terrible that lurked within the Gate. Ed felt the same rush of vertigo he remembered from before as he was swept along, standing on nothing. He tried focusing on Edward’s shoulder, on Al and Noah or Hawkeye and Mustang, tried to block out the sick falling sensation.

But his attention wavered and was instead drawn up to the Gatekeepers themselves, to their bodies, jet black skin laid bare for all to see.

He saw the ragged wounds they all bore and all at once, things that had been at the back of his mind for days clicked into place.

When Mustang had said he and Hawkeye had been put into a trance and then shunted between worlds, it occurred to Ed that that could mean that unconscious matter could traverse the Gate without a problem. What Chambers had said implied that speed was the key, that something moving fast enough could go through before the limbo things could get hold of it. But what if it was simpler than that? What if you could simply defer the cost and let the 'Hunger' consume something else in your place? A kind of equivalence though not one anyone in their right mind would want to test.

Writ large, the Gatekeeper's wounds were horrific but strangely clinical. The marks of a million tiny teeth were clear and regular, breaking through black skin to the bloodless bones below. If it weren't for a certain unmistakable fleshiness about it all, it could all have been carved from jet or obsidian. The worst of it was Ed could see what was left of them going to same way, from the outside in. Their forms were growing translucent, the black fading in patches to grey, lighting beginning to show through. Light and shadows. Lots of shadows, all with clawing hands.

They were sacrificing themselves to carry the six of them through the Gate. But by the look of it, there was not enough left of them to keep their cargo safe.

How much longer before they reached the other side? How much longer before the Hunger broke through and took everything it found?

Beside him, Edward shuddered again, more violently. “No!” he cried, “No! NO!” He tried to shake Ed off, lashing out blindly, trying to twist free and – what? Escape? Run home? Ed hung on fiercely. Even if he only had one arm, he was in much better shape than Edward and weighed considerably more. Emaciated by years of inactivity, Edward simply lacked the strength to get away. As slippery as he was, Ed was sure he could keep hold long enough for them to –

Al was shouting, Noah too.

“Fullmetal!” Mustang yelled.

The urgency of it was enough to distract Ed. They were reaching out to him, trying to pull him to them. He looked up.

The Gatekeepers were almost gone, the last shreds of their forms dissolving before the shadows. He could practically _see_ the teeth through them –

Pain shot up his arm, making his grip falter. Edward had _bitten_ him.

The next second, the homunculus man was free, fleeing blindly. He whacked Ed across the face as he went, sending him tumbling end over end.

Someone was still shouting his name. He couldn’t see who. Rushing, meaningless sound filled his ears, blocking them out. He was falling –

He was falling and everything below him was white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Once again, I sincerely hope my rewriting of this chapter has meant that the explanation of what happened is clearer, not more oblique.  
> \- My solution to Gate travel is an attempt to resolve its action during the series with the passage in Conqueror of Shamballa. With added giant alchemy construct people.  
> \- Leaving Noah behind was an option but felt . . . wrong. More on that choice to come . . .  
> \- This is the last full chapter! Huzzah! Only some epilogue-type stuff to go!


	40. Epilogue and Coda

** Epilogue: Into History  
**

“So this is the site of the infamous ‘Falconer Report’, is it?” The nondescript man in the brown suit looked out at the waving grasses, unimpressed. He picked at his front teeth. “It’s a field.”

“You noticed that?” his equally mediocre companion asked sarcastically, “My, you are observant today.”

Lieutenant Commander S Dance, officer in the British Navy, attached to MI6, scowled and flung an encompassing arm out at the scene of pastoral peace before them. “I mean, it’s a field with nothing in it. Not precisely Dante’s inferno.”

Casting a sharp eye over the landscape, Wing Commander D Morris could only agree. He chuckled. “It _is_ rather like trying to believe Constable was actually painting Satanic rites, I suppose.”

“Only slightly more absurd! The woman was quite obviously deranged.”

“Oh, come now,” his partner admonished, “It has been thirty years. More than enough time for the grass to grow. And it’s not as if we don’t have confirmation of some of what she reported.”

Dance snorted. “That there really was a Benedict Chambers and he really did disappear around that time? That the so-called ‘Templars’ disbanded soon after? That the weather was exceptionally bad that summer? How conclusive. Obviously there were magic rituals being conducted under this very spot.”

“ _Alchemic_ rituals,” Morris corrected pedantically, “I think you will find that she specified –”

“Alchemic, magic, does it really make any difference whatsoever? It’s all the same supernatural hogwash.”

“There are the artefacts. The items of interest back in the Black Archives.”

“Oh, yes. A few equally deranged eye-witness accounts, some gnawed bones and an old red overcoat found stuffed behind a wardrobe in a Strasbourg garret. Very conclusive. I still feel _reasonably_ confident that we can report that after thirty years there is still no sign of anything that might indicate that the world nearly ended here.”

“Why would there be?” a voice asked from behind the two men, “We buried it. It was the least we could do.”

Startled, they turned, Dance’s hand going to his gun. An old man, wizened and stooped, was peering over the fence, his gnarled hands resting on a walking stick. He scrutinised them thoughtfully. “I’m sorry,” he croaked after a while, “If I startled you. I thought you would have heard me coming.”

Dance released his weapon. “We didn’t.”

“English, eh?” There was a note of amusement in the statement. “Yes, well, she was, wasn’t she?”

“Who was?” Morris politely inquired, stepping forward.

“Eh? Heh. ‘Lizabeth. Strong woman. Scary. Afterwards . . . hm . . .” He trailed off, staring at the field. The wind ruffled his wispy hair.

Dance frowned. “After what?”

The old man wheezed, laughing at a joke only he had heard. “After what happened! She told you all about it, didn’t she? In her report? That’s why you’re here. Checking up. Took you long enough. Suppose you thought she was mad, no? Heh. Maybe she was. Maybe we all were. Would’ve made sense. After what happened . . .” He rounded on them suddenly, gripped by the fervour of his memories. “Do you know what happened here? Something to cure anyone of wanting to harm a fly for the rest of his life, that’s what! Hell happened here, gentlemen. Demons came. The heavens caved open. Saints and sinners fought . . . and when the dust had settled, it was as if it had never been. ‘Cept for what we had to bury. That’s what. Not that you’ll believe it. You think she was talking about magic and so it’s nonsense. Maybe it was. Magic, I mean. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was just science that could do anything. Could have been either. I wouldn’t know the difference. Would you? But you weren’t there, were you? You didn’t see it all. So you’ll never believe it.”

Huffing, he took a firmer grip on his stick and started to walk off, setting a surprisingly brisk pace. Dance and Moris exchanged looks. “Excuse me, sir?” Moris called after him.

The man ground to a halt and glanced back.

“What’s your name?” Dance asked.

This seemed to be another source of great amusement to the old codger. When the laughter had petered out, an odd seriousness came over him. “My name?” he asked back, “Now that’s a thing. I haven’t had a real name for longer than I can remember. Maybe I never had one at all. Maybe. Don’t suppose it matters. Tell ‘em you met Cain. Tell ‘em they should’ve believed her. But that maybe it’s better that they didn’t. Good day, gentlemen.”

And with that, he hobbled away, leaving the men from the British Government standing in an empty field.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Coda: Truth**

The Gate closes.

The Truth stands, unchanging in the void.

It is whole, as it has always been. It is the meaning of eternity and the fullness of infinity and the sanity of dreams. It is the point of chaos around which all turns and the point of unity into which all eventually joins. Its destruction is a drop in an endless ocean, barely worth the ripple.

The Gatekeepers stand before the edifice, tatters in their robes, wisps of what they once were. They crawl towards the gate, black stick figures on a blank canvas.

Seven by seven by seven. They reach the Gate, their fingers brushing the stonework. They climb, up and over and up, their fingers growing strong again, their bodies becoming whole.

They climb. They have always climbed. Up the columns, beside the gates, ceaseless and still, jet against marble.

They climb forever. Keeping the Gate. Guarding the things that lie within.

The Truth lives.

All are rushing back to where they should be.

And then?

Oh, then . . .

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Preview: Snow Fall**

The forest creaked and groaned, frozen branches clattering against each other. The snow underfoot was the crunchy kind, all fluffy looking until you actually stepped in and found that it really was the ice equivalent of popcorn. A bird cawed somewhere overhead, presumably expressing its disgust at the unannounced winter.

It paid no attention to the two figures struggling uphill below the canopy.

“Slow down!”

The leader looked back, annoyed. “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t be out here too long!” he retorted.

“But I didn’t mean you had to go so fast you’d hurt yourself!” The other youth pulled his hat down so that it was a little tighter around his ears. “You’re still weak!”

“I can walk, can’t I? And you can’t check the crop all by yourself, you know that.”

“I could have done! And if you don’t take things slower, I’m going to have to!”

“For God’s sake, I’m not an invalid!”

“Russseeellll!”

Fletcher Tringham finally overtook his older brother and planted himself firmly in his way. “If you hurt yourself, how am I going to get you home on my own? In this?” He waved at the snow. “I let you come out with me. Let me look after you, huh?”

Russell exhaled, blowing out a burst of steam. With a gloved hand, he brushed his hair out of his eyes and pouted. At length, he relented. “All right, all right. I’ll slow down. You don’t have to keep being such a mother hen though.”

“If I didn’t, you’d probably have poisoned yourself by now. Or alchemised you hand off. Or broken you neck. Or –”

“Yeah, yeah.” Russell pushed past him. “Are we going up to the fields or not?”

Grinning, Fletcher kept up at his side. Together, they trudged on through the cold.

“It’s not as if the crop isn’t going to be ruined anyway,” Russell grumbled.

“Some of them might be OK,” Fletcher reasoned, “The ones that had some shelter.”

“Last time I checked, most plants weren’t good at surviving freak sub-zero temperatures.”

“It only came down a few days ago...”

“Isn’t there a cure for optimism yet?”

“Just because you’re getting grumpy in your old age.”

“If you didn’t waste so much time talking, you’d keep up easier. That and – what was that?”

They stopped. Fletcher looked round. “What was what?”

“I thought I heard something . . .”

“That bird?”

“No.” Russell was frowning. “Something else.”

“Like what? I didn’t hear anything.”

“I don’t know! And with those stupid flaps over your ears, that’s not really surprising.”

“Hey!” Fletcher clutched his hat protectively. “I like them. They keep my ears _warm_.” He took it off and cocked his head to the side. “I still don’t hear anything.”

“It’s stopped now.”

“What was it?”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Russell glared at the trees. “Like . . . something crashing through the trees, maybe.”

“Maybe you’ve started hearing things?”

“I didn’t imagine it!” He surveyed the forest one more time then shook his head. “Or maybe I did. I don’t know. Come on. We’ll never get to the field at this rate.”

Fletcher eyed him anxiously. “If you’re sure . . .”

“Of course I am! Come . . .on . . .”

“Russell? Brother?”

Ignoring his brother’s urgent grip on his arm, Russell pointed. “Can you see that?”

Following the finger, Fletcher found himself looking down a slope that led off the one ridge they were climbing. The trees thinned out there, giving way to a long clearing that ended in more woods. “See what?”

“There, down there. Something lying in the snow.”

“Where? I – oh!” There _was_ something down there, roughly two thirds of the way along, a dark shape against the white background. “What is it?” he wondered

“Only one way to find out!” Russell whooped and set off downhill at a flat out run.

“Hey!” Fletcher cried, “Come back!”

Halfway down, Russell began to regret trying to prove that he wasn’t crippled for life. His chest felt stupidly constricted and he was huffing and puffing like an old man. He knew it was going to turn out to be a log and he could already hear Fletcher lecturing him on taking it easy. Damned alchemy plague. Why did he have to get it? Why did the weather have to start thinking it was mid-winter when it wasn’t even summer yet? Why were they stuck up in the mountains, looking after a project that had been ruined?

By the time he reached the clearing, he had successfully worked out answers to precisely none of these questions.

Fletcher caught up as his brother staggered the last few feet towards the thing in the snow. “You idiot,” he admonished tiredly, “What did you do that for?”

Russell was too busy staring. Fletcher looked down. And stared as well.

The man lay on his back, a mane of golden hair spread out around his head. His eyes were shut, his chest hardly moving. He was wearing ripped trousers and the remains of a sleeveless maroon vest. Dirt covered his skin and face, alongside a few days worth of stubble and a network of fresh bruises. He had one arm and his left leg ended at the knee. Blackened metal encrusted his right shoulder.

“Am I seeing this?” Russell murmured. He passed a hand over his eyes, rubbing at them furiously. The apparition did not vanish. He took a step back, as if afraid it was going to jump up and bite him. “I can’t be seeing this.”

“You are,” Fletcher whispered, blinking and rubbing his own eyes, “Russell . . . I think . . . it’s Ed.”

 

**Fullmetal Alchemist: The Long Walk Home**

**Coming Soon . . .**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And that's a wrap!  
> \- An enormous thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos on this fic. It was an unexpected pleasure to revisit it after so long and it's been great to see other people enjoying it too! Thanks also - of course - to Hiromu Arakawa for creating Fullmetal Alchemist in the first place, and to my various proof-readers for helping me play with the ideas for a while!  
> \- And! As you might be able to tell from my little post-credits sequence there, this is not the end! I've got a couple more stories that follow on from this, both of which are edited and ready to go from next week - so you'll only have to curse me for the cliffhanger over the weekend! Stay tuned!


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